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THE INDIAN STEPS 



To M 


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-- 































HENRY W. SHOEMAKER 

From a tintype by Eliza Huntley 



tlFlje jlrtiHcin Juleps 

AND OTHER 

Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 

fBy Henry W. Shoemaker 

Author of “Pennsylvania Mountain Stories,” “More 
Pennsylvania Mountain Stories," etc. 


.... thro’ the green land, 

V istas of change and adventure. 

The gray roads go beckoning and winding.” 


2UIasirairi> 



PUBLISHED BY 

The Bright Printing Company, Reading, Pa. 

1912 




* 

* 














&CI.A319553 • 

( 



INTRODUCTION 



NCE upon a time the author received 
a letter which said in part, “ I 
didn’t write half that was on mj 
' mind last night, so this is the 


second volume.” These words are about the 
best apology for the publication of the present 
collection of mountain legends, if any is needed. 
After the appearance of “ More Pennsylvania 
Mountain Stories” last March there were so 
many yet unwritten which the author felt were 
equally worthy, or unworthy, as the case might 
be, to be brought before the public that he de- 
cided to start the work immediately and pre- 
pare a new collection. The edition of “ More 
Pennsylvania Mountain Stories” was entirely 
exhausted within a month after publication, 
and the author decided that it would be better 
to prepare an entirely new book than to bring 
out a second edition of the other volume, as 
was done with the earlier work, “ Pennsylvania 
Mountain Stories.” What was said in the Ex- 
planatory Preface of the last book holds good 
for this one. The stories are equally true; at 


v 



VI 


Introduction 


least they came from sources equally reliable, 
and those which were the author’s personal 
experience more or less he can certainly vouch 
for. He much appreciates the kindly recep- 
tion from press and public which was so gen- 
erously given to “ More Pennsylvania Moun- 
tain Stories.” That is another reason for 
the appearance of this book. In it, as 
in the previous volumes, the author strives 
to show the variety and scope of Penn- 
sylvania folk-lore and tradition and through 
them hopes to give fresh vitality and in- 
terest to the localities where they occurred. 
There is no spot of ground a hundred 
feet square in the Pennsylvania mountains that 
has not its legend. Some are old, as ancient 
as the old, old forests. Others are of recent 
making or in formation now. Each one is 
different, each is full of its own local color. 
There are some stories in this book which con- 
tain more human interest than folk-lore, but 
they are included in order to give romance to 
certain places where older legends have not 
been secured. Any story which relates to 
human beings will sooner or later become folk- 


Indian Steps 


Vll 


lore. It is only when it is “ new” that its 
presence in a volume like this may be ques- 
tioned. The people of to-day who live, love 
and suffer will fill the pages of the history and 
literature of the future. A glimpse or two at 
present day residents of the Pennsylvania 
mountains ought to have almost the same call 
on the reader’s attention as tales pertaining 
to those u who lived and loved a thousand years 
ago.” The Indian Steps from which the pres- 
ent volume receives its name is an interesting 
landmark in the Tussey Mountains, not far 
from Pennsylvania Furnace, in Centre County. 
The Steps were made, so tradition states, to 
enable Indian warriors from the southern part 
of the State to quickly cross the mountains 
when they invaded their northern rivals. In 
this vicinity was enacted, about the year 1600, 
one of the bloodiest battles recorded in the 
annals of the Itedmen. It only lasted for a 
day, but it ended by the southern Indians be- 
ing driven out of the Spruce Creek Valley and 
across the mountains, their warriors being 
nearly annihilated. It has been a matter of 
general note among the historians that shortly 


viii 


Introduction 


before the advent of the Whites, the Indians 
were greatly decreased in numbers by pesti- 
lences and warfare. Had this not been the 
case, the first white settlers would have been 
so out-numbered by the Indians that they 
might never have been able to effect a perma- 
nent settlement. The passage of years, but 
more especially the running of logs, have pretty 
well obliterated the Indian Steps, but enough 
remains to serve as a marker of the frightful 
conflict between the combined tribes of what 
we shall call the Kishoquoquilas and the Sus- 
quehanahs. Many pleasant acquaintances were 
made while securing the material for the story 
of the Steps, the night spent recently at Bailey- 
ville having been one of the happiest of the 
author’s life. Mr. John H. Chatham, who 
taught the “ Glades” school forty-three years 
ago, accompanied the author on the trip and 
met many of his old time friends and pupils. 
It is the author’s hope that these and the many 
other charming acquaintances gained through 
the preparation of this and the earlier volumes 
may be continued. He certainly owes to one 
and all a debt of grateful appreciation. A love 


Introduction 


IX 


of the Central Pennsylvania mountains is and 
always will be the passport of his affections; 
he knows of no finer bond. 

Henry W. Shoemaker. 

New York City, July 12, 1912. 


I. 


THE INDIAN STEPS 


T was at the foot -races between 
the Indians south of the Tussey 
Mountains and the Indians north 
of these mountains, which took 
place on the “ plains” near what 
is now Pine Grove, that Silver 
Eagle, ruler of the Kishoquo- 
quilas, or Southern Indians, saw 
his cousin, the beautiful Princess Meadow 
Sweet. He had not laid eyes on her since she 
was carried away when the Northern Indians, 
or Susquehanahs, overran the Southern country 
and killed her father, King Yellow Thistle. 
She had been a nominal captive since her sixth 
year, and she was now sixteen. Iron wood, the 
mighty warrior and King of the Susquehanahs, 
who invaded the Southern country, had 
adopted her, and her beauty and intelligence 
made him lavish on her more affection than on 
his own children. At his death his eldest son, 
Pipsisseway, or Prince’s Pine, inherited the 

11 




12 


Indian Steps 


rulership of the vast domain which included 
all the territory now known as “ northern,” 
“ central,” and “ western” Pennsylvania. He 
greatly admired his exquisite-looking foster- 
sister Meadow Sweet, who in turn looked up 
to him on account of his sterling character, 
intrepid military skill and giant strength. The 
young monarch had always called her his 
“ little sister,” and looking upon her as such, 
romantic impulses were not stirred within him 
as early as they might otherwise have been. 
When old Ironwood was dying he begged his 
sons to see that Meadow Sweet received a 
dowry on her marriage. Pipsisseway promised 
the expiring ruler that she should have “ all 
the lands which lay east of Spruce Creek, south 
and west of the Susquehanah and north of 
Jack’s Mountains.” There was a smile on the 
aged chieftain’s lips when he heard this, and 
in another hour he was dead. None mourned 
him more than his foster-daughter, for there 
was a deep sympathetic bond between them. 
Pipsisseway carried out his promise, which 
made Meadow Sweet possessor of a domain of 
singular beauty and natural wealth. And this 


Indian Steps 


13 


territory became speedily known under the 
poetic title of “ The Land of Meadow Sweet.” 
Thus it was described in Indian oratory 
and in agreements with distant tribes. There 
may have been a “ love motive” back of Pip- 
sisseway’s generous suggestion, as it would 
seem unusual to present a foster-sister with a 
territory comprising some of the richest land 
in what is now Central Pennsylvania. It even 
included the royal campgrounds, burial 
grounds and pottery works which were located 
in what is now Wayne Township, Clinton 
County. This beautiful retreat, known to the 
first white settlers as “ Patterson’s Town,” had 
been the favorite headquarters for the great 
chieftains for centuries, and unless Pipsisseway 
intended marrying Meadow Sweet he would be 
forced to move the royal lodge-houses and 
abandon the graves of his ancestors if she be- 
came the wife of another. It may have been 
her extreme youth that prevented his open 
love-making, or some secret understanding be- 
tween the girl and himself that the betrothal 
was not to be announced until some future 
date. The princess was treated with the great- 


14 


Indian Steps 


est deference by Pipsisseway and his three 
brothers, Checkerberry, Ked Pine and Moon- 
seed. Most of her time was spent at the royal 
encampment by the Susquehanah, where she 
was attended by a score of maidens, the daugh- 
ters of noted war-chiefs. Wise men, from be- 
yond the Allegheny Mountains and from the 
far South, instructed her in all the arts and 
sciences known to the redmen. She was taught 
the use of the bow and arrow, and dart. The 
mysteries of woodcraft were explained by the 
greatest hunters that could be summoned for 
that purpose. Her life was a happy one, sur- 
rounded by congenial company, and, living in 
a beautiful region, she had little to wish for. 
During important religious ceremonials or 
sporting events she accompanied Pipsisseway 
to different parts of his domain. It had hither- 
to been deemed wise not to encourage any 
athletic competitions with other Indian king- 
doms, but the Kishoquoquilas had challenged 
so repeatedly that the Council of Wise Men, 
after grave deliberation, advised Pipsisseway 
to allow it to be accepted. These Wise Men 
knew that in their realm resided the fleetest 


Indian Steps 


15 


r 


runners, jumpers, wrestlers, and weight- 
throwers, and no challenging party would 
stand any chance against them. They con- 
sidered it would be humbling to the pride of 
their opponents to give them a decisive defeat 
in the field of sport and make them feel less 
likely to stir up warfare. This was logic, but 
they omitted to figure in the effect of the pres- 
ence of Princess Meadow Sweet, stolen in her 
early childhood from the Kishoquoquilas, upon 
the horde of warriors from the South. The 
great athletic meet took place the latter part 
of May, when nature was at her loveliest. The 
“ plains” where it occurred were just north of 
the mountains which formed the boundary be- 
tween the two rival kingdoms. They had been 
formed by fires frequently burning the timber, 
which had eventually fallen down, and the 
ground pastured smooth by vast herds of buffa- 
loes, elks, moose, and deer. The sports were 
to continue during four days and at night love 
feasts were to be held for the visiting redmen 
to become better acquainted with their neigh- 
bors. The greatest precautions were made to 
have everything pass off pleasantly. Pipsisse- 


16 


Indian Steps 


wav, who was a diplomat as well as a war- 
rior, called all the athletes before him in a 
private audience, urging them in no case to 
defeat a Southern Indian by a wide margin 
Every finish was to be close, and if it looked 
as if the Susquehanahs were to roll up a huge 
score of points against their competitors, some 
events must be purposely lost. This was a 
slightly different program from the one advised 
by the Wise Men, who urged that the Northern 
athletes give a decisive beating to their rivals. 
The weather was ideal for the tournament, and 
the number of Indians present far exceeded 
anticipations. They came from every direc- 
tion, marshaled by their chiefs. It was twenty 
years since the last contest of this kind had 
taken place. The Susquehanahs had been vic- 
torious by a wide margin, and the Kishoquo- 
quilas had returned across the mountains in 
an ugly frame of mind. On several occasions 
they had sent expeditions to the North, which, 
though always repudiated by King Yellow 
Thistle, inflicted serious damage on unpro- 
tected Northern tribes. The direct result of 
the athletic games had been King Ironwood’s 


Indian Steps 


17 


great invasion of the South, ending with the 
killing of Yellow Thistle and the capture of 
his young daughter. Ten years had passed, 
and the jealousy of the Kishoquoquilas, while 
not wholly appeased, was apparently not at a 
very acute stage. Embassies protesting friend- 
ship and laden with gifts had visited Pipsisse- 
way after his father’s death. The first chal- 
lenge for an athletic tournament had been made 
in a friendly spirit. Had it been accepted at 
once, the unpleasant features which later 
clustered about it might have been averted. 
Pipsisseway was young, and referred the mat- 
ter to his Council. They voted against it un- 
animously, so the challenge was rejected. Later 
when Pipsisseway heard the disagreeable talk 
occasioned he regretted what had been done. 
When he discussed it with the Councillors they 
told him that the previous tournament had 
brought on a bloody and senseless war. This 
one would do the same. When a second chal- 
lenge arrived it was rejected on similar 
grounds. Had the third challenge been re- 
fused, war would undoubtedly have resulted. 
Pipsisseway said if the meet were held and no 


18 


Indian Steps 


ill-feeling resulted, it would show that he was 
as great a ruler as the greatest of his ancestors. 
None of them had ever sanctioned an athletic 
contest with the Kishoquoquilas that had not 
ended in a war. This was as sure as the sun 
would rise in the morning. Pipsisseway surely 
wanted no wars during his reign. He wanted 
to make an agricultural people out of his sub- 
jects; wars and disease had made awful in- 
roads in the Indian population. He would 
recoup their numbers. He was the first man 
on the American continent to preach against 
race suicide. Not that Indians wilfully pre- 
vented large families, but the mothers were 
often ignorant or careless, consequently infant 
mortality was high. Prizes were offered for 
large families, and to mothers who were able to 
raise their children beyond the “ dangerous 
age” where children’s diseases were most fatal. 
Prizes were offered for the largest patches of 
cleared land, the largest yields of crops, the 
most substantially built lodges, for the scalps 
of dangerous animals and the like. Pipsisse- 
way was essentially a “ constructive monarch.” 
A description of his personal appearance has 


Indian Steps 


19 


come down to us, and is strangely like that of 
the most constructive American of the present 
day, Col. Theodore Roosevelt. He was, of 
course, darker than the Colonel, but like him 
was of medium height, powerfully built, and 
with prominent, aggressive teeth. Unlike his 
modern prototype, he died at an early age, but 
he ranked as the greatest Indian King Central 
Pennsylvania ever possessed. He was simple 
in his habits, being extremely democratic and 
affable. His subjects, who numbered about 
fifty thousand souls of different tribal charac- 
teristics and residing vast distances apart, all 
worshiped him, and would have laid down their 
lives for him without a murmur. When he ap- 
peared at the “ plains,” accompanied by his 
faithful brothers, and his foster-sister Meadow 
Sweet, he was greeted with the wildest enthu- 
siasm. As a personal tribute nothing like it 
was known in Indian annals. Many old men 
said that the bulk of the vast turnout of people 
was due to a desire to see the popular monarch 
rather than to witness the contests. Fewer 
Indians would have tramped a hundred miles 
to see races alone. They had come from the 


20 


Indian Steps 


headwaters of the Allegheny, the Chemung, the 
Lycoming, from Chillesquaque, Shamokin and 
Mahantango, ostensibly to see a magnificent 
tourney, but in reality to show their loyalty to 
their King. Unlike other Indian rulers, and 
some of lesser rank, Pipsisseway did not travel 
in a litter. He walked every foot of the way 
from the Susquehanna to the Spruce Creek 
Valley. His brothers also walked, but insisted 
that Meadow Sweet ride in a litter. She re- 
luctantly consented, as she had absorbed her 
foster relatives’ democratic spirit. Horses 
were unknown in those days, but sometimes 
the priests rode elks and moose in religious 
pageants. As these animals were only ridden 
on sacred occasions, races between Indians 
mounted upon them would have been impos- 
sible. The first event was a foot-race from the 
head of the plains to the Kock Spring and 
return. Two champion runners, one repre- 
senting the Susquehanahs and the other the 
Kishoquoquilas, started on a signal given by 
Meadow Sweet, who waved a bunch of heron’s 
feathers. The Susquehanah runner leaped to 
the front and led his Southern competitor by 


Indian Steps 


21 


several hundred yards. There was silence in 
the Kishoquoquilas camp, and not too much 
applause among the Susquehanahs, as they had 
been warned not to display undue enthusiasm 
lest it anger their rivals. The race seemed like 
a procession until the last hundred yards, when 
the Susquehanah runner seemed to tire badly. 
His Southern rival crept upon him amid the 
terrifying yells of his cohorts, but the Susque- 
hanah managed to last long enough to win 
by a foot. The Southern Indians were de- 
lighted with the result, but they little knew 
that the Susquehanah runner had only feigned 
fatigue, and could have won by several hun- 
dred yards, if he wished. The second event 
was a twenty-mile point-to-point relay race, 
which the Susquehanahs could have won easily, 
but they held back and only allowed themselves 
to win by a narrow margin. The first day’s 
sport ending without ill-feeling of any kind, 
Pipsisseway felt much encouraged. A mag- 
nificent banquet was spread under the white 
oaks, which was attended by King Silver Eagle, 
of the Kishoquoquilas, his retinue, as well as 
Pipsisseway, his brothers, retainers, and the 


22 


Indian Steps 


Princess Meadow Sweet. Silver Eagle was 
presented to the princess, whom, as already 
stated, he had not seen in many years, since 
she was carried off by the conquering invader, 
Iron wood. Although she was his cousin, 
Silver Eagle fell in love with her instantly. 
He was very attentive to her all through the 
evening, but she kept him at a distance, being 
discreet enough not to want to offend him, but 
at the same time not caring to arouse Pipsisse- 
way’s jealousy. She was woman enough to 
feel that underneath her foster-brother’s calm 
exterior, there smoldered a deep interest for 
her. She admired him, and was only waiting 
for him to say the word, when she would gladly 
agree to become his wife. Silver Eagle laid 
great stress on their relationship, and sug- 
gested now that the feeling between his tribes 
and the Susquehanahs were so thoroughly 
amicable that, accompanied by a proper body- 
guard, she be allowed to pay a visit to her old 
home south of the Tussey Mountains. She told 
him that she would love to do this some time, 
and felt confident her kingly foster-brother and 
guardian Pipsisseway would gladly give her 


Indian Steps 


23 


permission. At midnight the visitors retired 
to their quarters, and every one in authority 
among the Susquehanahs breathed easier. The 
first day’s festivities had come and gone, and 
everybody was happy. On the next day took 
place the jumping contests and shooting 
matches. At high-jumping and broad-jumping 
the Susquehanahs excelled, but they were care- 
ful not to win too easily from the Kishoquo- 
quilas. The shooting was the most interesting 
part of the entire tournament. There were 
contests at archery, participated in by trained 
warriors, by aged warriors, by small boys and 
by women. In all these classes, Susquehanah 
prowess prevailed, but only by the narrowest 
of margins. The Kishoquoquilas were beaten, 
but not disgraced. The Indians from the 
South were still hopeful they might win some- 
thing before the contest ended, and exhibited 
no ill-feeling. That night King Pipsisseway 
dined a select company under the white oaks. 
The only outsiders were Silver Eagle and his 
personal suite. He renewed his attentions to 
Meadow Sweet, painting to her in lurid colors 
the beauties of the Southern Country, its val- 


24 


Indian Steps 


leys, its mountains, its rivers, its population 
so intelligent and handsome compared to those 
in the North. “ They are your people,” he 
said ; “ you must mingle with them ; you will 
love them as much as they love you. You 
know how they cheer you every time 
you appear at the tournament.” Meadow 
Sweet continued her tactfully guarded conduct, 
and Silver Eagle departed at the midnight 
hour, in excellent humor. “ You are a born 
diplomatist,” said Pipsisseway to her after the 
distinguished guest had gone. “ You were 
born to rule over vast dominions. The world 
has never seen your equal in womankind.” 
Meadow Sweet smiled to herself ; Silver Eagle’s 
attentions were arousing the latent fire of 
Pipsisseway. Probably the crowning event of 
the tournament would be his public announce- 
ment of their betrothal. But he hadn’t pro- 
posed as yet. She knew full well who she 
was, and how at a word from herself Silver 
Eagle would demand her restoration to the 
Kishoquoquilas. But she would remain where 
she was for two considerations. Being a 
woman, she had no inheritance beside her rank 


Indian Steps 


25 


in her own country; with the Susquehanahs 
she had inherited a large territory, and had a 
chance of becoming the Queen of King Pipsisse- 
wav, if he proposed. With the third day took 
place the wrestling matches, the live-bird 
shoots, the weight-throwing competitions and 
the grand animal drive. The Susquehanah 
wrestlers and weight-throwers were the victors, 
but their rivals apparently put up good fights. 
Ten thousand live wild pigeons and parrots 
were shot at in the live - bird competition, 
the majority of which were killed by the 
Susquehanahs. Then came the animal drive. 
A thousand buffaloes, elks, moose, and deer 
were released one by one from a corral and 
driven across the plains. The idea was to 
kill an animal at the first shot. If it did 
not fall it scored one against the party who 
held the bow. Out of the thousand animals 
seven hundred fell at the first bow thrust. 
Of these, three hundred and forty-nine were 
killed by the Susquehanah nimrods, so care 
fully had they measured their skill against 
their opponents. The Kishoquoquilas had won 
an event, so were happy. That evening Silver 


26 


Indian Steps 


Eagle was again entertained at Pipsisseway 7 s 
quarters. He was in excellent spirits and 
monopolized so much of Meadow Sweet’s atten- 
tions that Pipsisseway almost felt slighted. 
This was especially so when he began talking to 
her in his Southern dialect, as if to cut Pip- 
sissesway entirely out of the conversation. 
Meadow Sweet was glad when he left, and 
threw herself at full length at Pipsisseway’s 
feet, exclaiming, “ Oh, how he tires me.” 
“ Fll be glad when this is all over, just 
to get rid of Silver Eagle,” said Pipsisseway. 
The next day's program consisted of several 
minor contests, such as a three-legged race, a 
race for cripples, and a dart-throwing com- 
petition. These the Susquehanahs let the 
Kishoquoquilas win. The score of the tourna- 
ment stood fifty-five to forty-five; the Susque- 
hanahs had “ played their cards well.” After 
these contests, a magnificent barbecue took 
place, and the beasts slain in the animal drive 
the day before were served up, deliciously 
cooked, to the multitude. It was estimated that 
ten thousand Indians “ partook” of the repast, 
but in what proportion seven hundred animals 


Indian Steps 


27 


could go into ten thousand rapacious Indian 
stomachs is a question for an expert hotel- 
keeper, and not for an historian. A private re- 
past v as served under the white oaks by Pip- 
sisseway, as a parting honor to King Silver 
Eagle, his retinue, and staff. Antelopes 
brought from what is now Kentucky were 
served to these dignitaries, as was green corn 
and tomatoes preserved in their natural state 
from the year before. Silver Eagle was 
crouched close to Meadow Sweet while the feast 
was in progress, and whispering compliments 
in her ears. After the meal was over he con- 
trived to edge her into a quiet corner, where 
he could talk to her undisturbed. “ I love you, 
fairest cousin/’ he expostulated, “ I can keep 
back these words no longer. Come with me 
to-night ; we shall be married with great pomp, 
and you shall rule with me over my dominions. 
You belong to our people by birth ; you are an 
alien among the Susquehanahs.” Meadow 
Sweet fully expected this outcome, and was 
prepared to meet it. It was a trying position, 
as to give an excuse that would not insult her 
admirer took considerable tact. “ I am honored 


28 


Indian Steps 


by your proposal, famous cousin,” she replied, 
“ but you are aware that I am a captive, though 
a willing one, of Pipsisseway; I am also very 
young; my power of choice is vested in him as 
my guardian. Ask his permission ; I shall be 
guided by his noble sense of fairness.” Silver 
Eagle could not tell whether it was “ yes” or 
“ no,” but was not displeased. He took the 
maiden’s hand in his and kissed it. “ We will 
go at once to your worthy guardian, Pipsisse- 
way, who is not the man to hinder a cause like 
true love.” Pipsisseway had been pretending 
to be holding a conversation with some of his 
chiefs while this little talk was in progress, but 
he had been watching the two actors carefully. 
He was especially anxious to note any sign in 
Meadow Sweet’s face indicating that she pos- 
sessed a lurking interest for her cousin. Being 
impressed by her lack of concern, he was de- 
termined to outwit the wily interloper. Of 
course, he could not be sure that Silver Eagle 
had been proposing, but it looked very much 
that way. When the Southern monarch and 
Meadow Sweet approached, and the retainers 
fell back leaving the trio together, he was pre- 


Indian Steps 


29 


pared for any emergency. “ Worthy King, I 
have come to ask your foster-sister’s hand in 
holy marriage,” said Silver Eagle. “ Gracious 
ruler, I much regret to say that I have prom- 
ised her in marriage to myself,” replied Pip- 
sisseway. This was a stinging blow to Silver 
Eagle’s hope and pride ; his black eyes snapped 
angrily; he staggered like a drunken man. 
When he recovered himself he said, “ Is this 
true, fairest cousin?” Meadow Sweet, while 
Pipsisseway had never proposed to her, would 
have taken him any time if he had, was only too 
glad to answer, “ It is the truth.” “ Then, 
why didn’t you tell me so a few minutes ago, 
and save me this humiliation?” said Silver 
Eagle with renewed anger. “ I am, great king, 
as you are aware, only a captive of Pipsisse- 
way’s; I could not answer for myself. But I 
can truthfully say that I love him with all my 
heart.” Pipsisseway smiled at this clever re- 
joinder, and held out his hand in a friendly 
manner to Silver Eagle. The Southern mon- 
arch put his own hand behind his back, and 
edged away from him, muttering to himself. 
Pipsisseway walked after him, but he refused 


30 


Indian Steps 


to notice him. The four days* festivities had 
wound up in a quarrel after all. There was no 
use trying to pacify Silver Eagle ; he had prob- 
ably been mad all along over the almost con- 
tinuous victories of the Susquehanahs in the 
tournament, but now had come “ the unkindest 
cut of all.” Early in the morning it was re- 
ported that Silver Eagle had broken camp at 
dawn, and withdrawn across the Tussey Moun- 
tains. There were a number of unpleasant in- 
cidents between the Kishoquoquilas and the 
Susquehanahs over the breaking up of camp; 
several unprovoked murders were committed by 
the Southern Indians, and threats of all kinds 
passed. Their King’s disappointment, though 
unknown to them, was evidently telegraphed 
ro them in some form of unrest, and all the 
ugliness in their natures came to the surface 
on “ moving day.” Nothing further was said 
about the marriage of Pipsisseway and Meadow 
Sweet until they had returned to the royal 
camping-grounds on the Susquehanna. There 
the betrothal was publicly announced, and fleet 
runners sent to all quarters of the realm to 
acquaint the various tribes of the gladsome 


Indian Steps 


31 


news. This, coming so soon after the signal 
victory over the Kishoquoquilas in the athletic 
tournament, stirred the Susquehanahs into a 
white heat of patriotism. It would have been 
a good time to go to war; every one was in a 
mood to fight for his country. The wedding 
took place “ two moons” after the betrothal 
was announced, being attended by fully five 
thousand Indians, as many Susquehanahs who 
had witnessed the athletic tournament. Am- 
bassadors were present from all the neighbor- 
ing kingdoms, with the one notable exception 
of the Kishoquoquilas. This was accounted 
extraordinary, as Meadow Sweet, being a 
Kishoquoquilas princess, the daughter of their 
late King Yellow Thistle, should have married 
in the presence of some of her own countrymen. 
A brief honeymoon was taken to Lewis 7 Lake, a 
spot sacred to the Indians as having been once 
the entrance to the Underworld, or realm of 
spirits. Upon their return, the Council of 
Wise Men had what they considered bad tid- 
ings to relate. Hunters had reported that a 
vast force of Kishoquoquilas were building a 
flight of stone steps in Stone Valley, from the 


32 


Indian Steps 


foot of the Tussey Mountains to the summit. 
Why this was being built was a mystery, ex- 
cept that it would enable the Kishoquoquilas 
Indians, in case they invaded the Northern 
Country, to cross the mountains with greater 
rapidity. They could make a “ flying attack,” 
as it were. Pipsisseway looked grave when he 
heard this. “ Not only that,” he said, “ but I 
believe those steps are being built because they 
feel certain they will conquer us after their 
invasion, and they want to minimize nature’s 
barriers. After they imagine they have con- 
quered us, they will expect to finish the steps 
down the northern slope of the mountain.” 
Pipsisseway’s abilities as a strategist were 
confirmed by spies whom he caused to be sent 
out. They returned, saying that Silver Eagle 
was assembling a vast army in the Southern 
valleys. He was drafting warriors from as far 
South as what is now Maryland and Virginia. 
Prom talk they had heard six or seven thou- 
sand braves were under arms. The purpose 
of the steps was now established. This vast 
force of Indians was at present spread out 
through the valleys. When the time arrived 


Indian Steps 


33 


they could be marshaled quickly and sent 
across into Spruce Creek Valley on a run. 
They would appear in this valley so suddenly 
that there would be no time to resist. Sweep- 
ing northward, they would pillage and capture 
everything in sight until they reached the royal 
encampment by the Susquehanna. The build- 
ings would be burnt, Pipsisseway and his 
brothers surprised and murdered, while the 
beautiful Princess Meadow Sweet would be 
carried off to her old home in the South. Pip- 
sisseway and his brothers dead, a marriage 
could be arranged between the young widow 
and Silver Eagle, who would rule over the 
largest domain on the eastern slope of the 
Alleghenies. The Indian Steps would be a 
recognized gateway of travel between the South 
and North. The most trustworthy and in- 
telligent chiefs were summoned for conference 
with Pipsisseway and his Council. Fifty 
chieftains answered the call. It was decided 
by them that every male Indian fit for service 
should be moved in the direction of the Tussey 
Mountains. That was to be the ultimate des- 
tination, but they should tarry at all the fre- 


34 


Indian Steps 


quented mountain passes where ingress from 
the South was afforded. But the rallying point 
was to be at the northern side of the “ Indian 
Steps.” Every brave was to start separately; 
no two men should travel together. It could 
not. be said that a vast “ body” of Indians was 
moving to the South ; they would go as in- 
dividuals. The chiefs returned to their homes, 
and ere long the advance began. Among them 
were Indians from the Chillesquaque country, 
led by Chief Hidden River; Indians from the 
Loyalsock region under Chief Mountain Ash; 
Indians from Nippenose Valley, led by Chief 
Lock-and-Bar ; Indians from the region north 
of the royal encampment, in what is now 
Wayne Township, Clinton County, led by Chief 
Hazelwood; Indians from the Monsey Town 
Flats, as the country around what is now Lock 
Haven was called, commanded by Chief Gold 
Thread; Indians from the SinnemaJhoning 
region, led by Chief Sonicle; Indians from the 
Bald Eagle Valley, under Chief Mountain 
Lion ; Indians from Penn’s Valley, led by Chief 
Panther Fangs, the grandfather, by the way, 
of the celebrated Indian Red Panther ; Indians 


Indian Steps 


35 


from the Black Forest, famed for their skill 
with bow and arrow and spear, led by Chief 
Tiadaghton ; the Indians residing in Spruce 
Creek Valley, under Chief Golden Hour; — all 
moving in a common direction by different 
routes, each as an individual, silent, loyal, de- 
termined. It was a subject of some discussion 
among Pipsisseway and his brothers if Meadow 
Sweet be allowed to accompany them. She 
pleaded so hard, and Pipsisseway relied so much 
on her judgment, that she went with the royal 
party. This consisted of King Pipsisseway, 
his brothers, the Council of Fifty Wise Men, 
the royal bodyguard, and household. Queen 
Meadow Sweet was attended by a single 
maiden. The rest of her retinue remained in 
the beautiful retreat by the Susquehanna, 
watched by one hundred picked Indians of the 
home - guard. The regal camp - ground looked 
deserted when they were gone ; it seemed a pity 
to leave such an ideal spot. Arriving in the 
Southern country the various tribesmen of the 
Susquehanahs camped out as individuals and 
waited. Spies who visited Stone Valley and 
adjoining valleys under cover of darkness re* 


36 


Indian Steps 


ported that the main bodies of the Southern 
Indians, or Kishoquoquilas, were camping 
along what are now known as Shaver’s Run, 
Globe Run, and Garner’s Run. This showed 
that the line of attack was to be by way of the 
Steps. It was to be the sudden rush of a vast 
horde of warriors, whose combined strength 
would sweep everything before. When this in- 
formation was thoroughly verified, the Indians 
that were posted near the various points of 
ingress to the Susquehanah kingdom were con- 
centrated in Spruce Creek Valley. All were 
ordered to remain in the forests, and it would 
be impossible to have imagined army 
lurking at the foot of the Tussey Mountains. 
Undoubtedly the Kishoquoquilas sent out spies, 
but not finding any connected bodies of war- 
riors, would imagine that the ones they saw 
were hunters or fishermen. The Steps were 
completed in the early winter, and the invasion 
was expected to follow. The army of the de- 
fense was on the alert, but nothing seemed to 
happen. Days and weeks passed. The forests 
were banked with snow. The waiting force 
became restless, hungry, and unhappy. They 


Indian Steps 


37 


begged to be allowed to visit their homes and 
help their families. Permission was granted 
in rotation, and when an Indian left on a 
week's furlough, another would return from 
his trip the same day. Evidently the Kisho- 
quoquilas finally received some intimation that 
a strong force awaited them, and were trying 
tactics of delay in order to reduce the numbers 
of their enemies. Some day when the defense 
was disorganized they would sweep over the 
mountain and the domain of Pipsisseway 
would be theirs. But the same dissatisfaction 
which had reigned among the Susquehanahs 
broke out among the Kishoquoquilas. It was 
an outrage to keep them so long without sign 
of a battle. Being encamped in compact 
bodies it was impossible to grant furloughs 
wholesale. In consequence there were threats 
of mutiny and desertion from some of the war- 
riors from below the Potomac. An advance 
must be made, or the force could not be held 
together, was the advice given repeatedly to 
Silver Eagle by his aides. He would try to 
show them that the longer it was postponed 
the better the chance of finding their adver- 


38 


Indian Steps 


saries scattered and unprepared. “ Your great 
mistake, sire/’ said Dangleberry, one of his 
oldest warriors, “ was in assembling your force 
before the completion of the Steps. You should 
have waited until a year after they were fin- 
ished ; then you would have found our enemies 
completely off their guard.” “ It’s too late 
now,” replied Silver Eagle, ruefully; “ we must 
do the best we can.” The reports of dissatis- 
faction were so overwhelming that one snowy 
morning at daybreak the advance, at double 
quick, was ordered. The force, numbering 
some five thousand braves, trooped up the 
Steps, over the summit, and down the rough 
mountain sides, coming on the level at the 
“ plains.” As they emerged into the open 
country a terrific fusillade of arrows, darts, 
and spears assailed them from the forests on 
either side. Some of the more mercenary 
quickly retreated into the woods and up the 
mountain, but the majority, goaded on by their 
chiefs, kept advancing across the plain. The 
casualties in Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg 
were trifles compared to the harvest of death 
in this invasion of Spruce Creek Valley by the 


Indian Steps 


39 


Kishoquoquilas. Before they were halfway 
across the open space, panic began seizing the 
entire body, and they ran from side to side, 
under the merciless rain of arrows. Many 
dropped into the snow from sheer fright and 
lay as dead. It is related that the entire in- 
vading army did not shoot five hundred arrows. 
They were overcome with terror too quickly. 
All they could do was stagger about, waiting 
to be killed. Out of the five thousand who ap- 
peared on the plains, scarcely a thousand 
reached the forest on the northern edge of it in 
safety. These, when they came face to face 
with their enemies, felt renewed courage, and 
drawing their knives and tomahawks fought 
desperately. In a few minutes a thousand 
hand to hand conflicts of the bloodiest char- 
acter were in progress. Silver Eagle was one 
of those lucky enough to cross the plain safely, 
and fought with diabolical bravery. He 
hacked his way through a mass of Susque- 
hanahs, swearing that he’d reach the head- 
quarters of Pipsisseway, the location of which 
he seemed to know, if he had to kill a thousand 
tribesmen on the way. He probably slew a 


40 


Indian Steps 


score of Indians before be was free to run for- 
ward unhampered. In the distance, through 
the spaces between the trunks of the giant 
white oaks, he could make out a substantial 
lodge house built of logs. It stood a hundred 
yards from the Rock Spring, the source of 
Spruce Creek. “ That’s Pipsisseway’s house ; 
I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him; Meadow Sweet will 
yet be mine!” As he neared the door he saw 
the beautiful Queen emerge, looking weary 
and anxious. He waved to her, roaring, “ I’ve 
killed your cursed husband; fly with me and 
be mine,” and redoubled his pace through the 
wet snow. Just then a powerful voice rang 
out, “ Not so fast, ambitious king, not so fast ; 
I’m far from dead.” He looked around and 
beheld his arch-enemy, Pipsisseway. He had 
not time to raise his tomahawk, for the King 
of the Susquehanahs had punctuated his greet- 
ing by cleaving his skull. He fell in a limp 
mass in the slush, his brains spattering about 
like a fox’s entrails. Silver Eagle being dead, 
Pipsisseway rushed back into the thick of the 
conflict, and helped despatch some of the few 
remaining Kishoquoquilas. The slaughter con- 


Indian Steps 


41 


tin lied all day long, and when night fell it was 
safe to say that there wasn’t a living Kisho- 
quoquilas north of Tussey Mountains. Even 
those who had fallen, panic-stricken, in the 
snow on the plains were butchered later when 
they attempted to sneak away. The order 
v ent out, “ Kill every Kishoquoquilas ; take 
no prisoners.” As Pipsisseway, reeking with 
blood, tramped back to his lodge-house that 
night his mind evolved a fiendish revenge on 
his enemies. “ I’ll have Silver Eagle’s body 
thrown into the Rock Spring, and every other 
corpse of his followers of high rank that we 
can identify. Rock Spring is the source of 
Spruce Creek, and Spruce Creek flows into the 
Juniata, that runs through the richest terri- 
tory of the Kishoquoquilas. The putrifying 
carcasses of their king and the pick of their 
warriors shall taint the water that they drink.” 
Next morning this scheme was put into effect ; 
over a hundred scalped and mutilated corpses 
being dumped into the Spring. For a full year 
the Indians who lived at the mouth of the creek 
said that the water smelled rancid even there. 
It was deemed unwholesome, and for years the 


42 


Indian Steps 


redmen had an idea it was not tit to drink. 
But what was pollution then adds to its 
purity now. Just as sugar is strained through 
bones, the crystalline source at Kock Spring 
flows through bones, the bones of warriors 
which time has left unsullied, and bubbles into 
the bowl of the spring limpid and sweet as 
dew. After the great conflict, which was called 
The Battle of the Indian Steps,” the Kisho- 
quoquilas went on the decline. They split up 
into small tribes, and were constantly at war 
with one another. Pipsisseway did not follow 
up his victory, but returned to his beautiful 
retreat by the Susquehanna, where he died the 
following autumn of chills and fever. Besides 
his widow he left a son, named War Bonnet, 
who ultimately came to rule over his posses- 
sions. The Susquehanah kingdom enjoyed 
marked prosperity for nearly a hundred years 
after the great battle, only falling into a state 
of civil war during the last years of the Seven- 
teenth Century. King Merciless and King 
Golden Treasure w T ere two rival rulers of a 
later date, whose factional fights did much to 
disrupt the old kingdom. It seemed a shame 


Indian Steps 


43 


that the passing of the redmen should have 
practically obliterated the Story of the Indian 
Steps and the resultant battle. But it is only 
one of the many historical legends that are 
fading away. 


II. 


A REDMAN'S GRATITUDE 


ANCASTER was thronged by a 
wild and noisy mob. It was as 
noisy as only North of Ireland 
men can be when something dis- 
agrees with their principles. 
They had come to town vowing 
vengeance, and no one of this 
race says a thing without mean- 
ing it, or seldom wills without the accomplish- 
ment. The Indian outrages had become so 
terrifying that an example, summary and last- 
ing, must be administered. Unfortunately the 
real offenders were out of reach, but in Lan 
caster jail were lodged a score of harmless 
remnants of the once-great tribal organization, 
the Lenni Lenape. For half a dozen years 
they had camped on the outskirts of the town, 
on the present site of Grand View, although 
some few of them had their lodges along the 



44 


Indian Steps 


45 


sliady banks of Conestoga. They were a sickly 
lot, tall, weak-kneed, hollowed-chested. Even 
the heralded beauty of the Indian race was 
lacking in the women. Children were few ; 
they seemed on the verge of extinction. The 
white settlers had it that they drowned their 
offspring, but it was Nature, and not human 
nature, that kept down the increase. When 
the Indian massacres along the border became 
of daily occurrence the most stolid white neigh 
bors began to look askance at the little band 
of aborigines in their midst. They subjected 
them to petty slights; those few who were 
willing to work were denied the chance; they 
were driven from their fishing grounds, their 
corn uprooted, and children fired stones at 
them as they stolidly filed along the paths lead- 
ing to town. They could not have retaliated if 
they wanted, they were so outnumbered. But 
these persecutions could have been endured, had 
they not ended in the murder of some of the In- 
dian women and children. The leaders, thor- 
oughly alarmed, went to see the town burgess, to 
beg protection. “ Come into town,” said Dr. 
Adam Kuhn, “ and we will lodge you in the 


46 


Indian Steps 


workhouse until the excitement dies down.” 
This seemed like sage advice, so the entire band 
gave themselves over to the local authorities. 
Jail life was not disagreeable. They could 
smoke in the court-yards, do their own cooking 
and were liberally provided with food. Some 
of them openly remarked that they could stand 
life sentences. But the presence of so many 
Indians housed and fed by the authorities in- 
censed the more belligerent citizens, especially 
those who had tasted warfare with the redmen. 
The town officials were lampooned and ridi- 
culed, but they were conscientious men, and felt 
a sense of duty towards their helpless wards. 
The work-house was a flimsy affair, even though 
it was built of stone. The walls were thin ; it 
looked as if the Quaker architect had never ex- 
pected it to be occupied by real criminals. It 
was like a jail one would see on the stage. The 
Indians realized their physical insecurity, but 
concluded that they were safer jvdthin its nar- 
row walls than in the open country. They also 
believed that in case of an attack, soldiery, 
what or where from was vague, would come to 
their rescue. The burgess, when armed men 


Indian Steps 


47 


rode through the streets and shouted, “ Death 
to every Indian/’ said he “ relied on the natural 
common-sense of the people to avert blood- 
shed.” The common-sense people were evi- 
dently far in a minority, for when the jail was 
attacked, there seemed to be an unanimity of 
opinion favoring it. The quarters of the jailer, 
Ben McKeehan, were in a smaller stone house, 
separated from the main structure by a narrow 
alley-way. His wife, daughter and niece, 
though it was Sunday, were cooking dinner 
when the attack began. In their domestic 
duties they were being assisted by Blue Cloud, 
a boy of the Lenape, about fourteen years old. 
He was a mild-faced lad, tall for his age, and 
tolerably well muscled. Katie Bigland, one of 
the jailer’s nieces, about his own age, had taken 
quite a fancy to him. She was helping him 
learn the English language, with a top-dressing 
of North of Ireland brogue, and showing him 
the intricacies of civilized culinary art. Katie 
and her sister Maggie, who was a couple of 
years older, were orphans. Their parents had 
died in Donegal, in the old country, several 
years before, and they were being brought up 


48 


Indian Steps 


by their prosperous relatives. Jail-keeping 
may not seem a prosperous calling, but it was 
an office always held by politicians, and poli- 
ticians even in those remote days were “ well- 
fixed.” As the Indian boy was useful, his 
presence wasn’t distasteful; it was lucky for 
him that such was the case. The cooking was 
half over before the women realized that the 
work-house had been broken into, the jailer 
overpowered and a hundred brawny, red- 
headed Irishmen were butchering the swarthy 
captives in true Donnybrook Fair fashion. 
Katie was quick to scent danger for her Indian 
friend. “-You’ve got to hide this very minute, 
you Blue Cloud. I don’t want anything happen- 
ing to you.” “Where shall I hide?” inquired 
the Indian, with stolid stupidity. “ In the 
chimney,” was the girl’s quick-witted answer. 
The Indian clambered up, sending a trail of 
soot clattering down after him. He got out of 
sight none too soon. The mob, fresh from 
their successful butchery, were already peering 
through the windows of the jailer’s home. The 
women were standing about the cupboard, ap- 
parently busy. Their faces looked as if they 


Indian Steps 


49 


knew little and cared less about the massacre 
that had just occurred. They looked no worse 
than ordinary farmers’ wives after a particu- 
larly sanguinary butchering. But some of the 
mob were more hot-headed than the rest. They 
pushed open the doors of the house, and trooped 
into the kitchen. They inspected everything, 
but did no damage, except with their muddy 
boots. After the last man had walked through 
the house, the women were left in peace to re- 
sume their cooking. There wasn’t much heat 
in the fireplace, else Blue Cloud would have 
resembled a ham fresh from the smoke-house 
upon his release. At nightfall Katie took the 
responsibility of summoning him down. When 
he appeared he looked like a different person. 
Formerly he was one of the lightest colored of 
the tribe, but now, after four hours up the 
chimney, he was one of the blackest. “ You 
look like a true Lenape now,” said Katie. She 
had teased him by telling him he had Irish 
blood, as he was so light colored ; his skin was 
buff, whereas most members of his tribe were 
sooty black. “ Judging from the way the Irish 
acted today, I’m glad I don’t look like that 


50 


Indian Steps 


breed,” said the Indian, sarcastically, in his 
best English. He was told to sit in the ingle- 
nook, so to be handy to return into the chimney 
if a fresh outbreak occurred. He remained 
there in silence until the jailer himself ap- 
peared. “ Heaven help us,” he declared. “ that 
mob of boys from the border have killed every 
one of the fourteen Indians we had in the jail.” 
Then he glanced at Blue Cloud and said, 

“ You’ve one consolation, my boy ; you now 
have the distinction of being the last of the 
Lenni Lenape.” Just then Katie spoke up; 
“Well, uncle Ben, he never did look like one; 
it would have been a shame to have killed an 
Irish Indian.” At this the entire roomful, in- 
cluding the “ last of the Lenape,” laughed. 
Evidently the lad had lost no relatives in the 
massacre, for he was still able to smile. Per- 
haps he was too dazed to know what he was 
doing. The jailer soon brought him to his 
senses by telling him he must make his escape 
to the mountains that very night; there was 
no chance for an Indian to survive in Lan- 
caster. He explained that a German trader, 
who stabled in a log barn in the rear of the 


Indian Steps 


51 


work-house, was starting on a trip to the Blue 
Mountains at midnight. He would arrange 
with him to secrete the Indian somewhere 
among the bales and boxes. “ We’ll be back 
if he won’t do this,” said McKeehan, “ but I 
think he will.” Dressing the youth as much as 
possible to resemble one of the fiery “ Paxton 
Boys,” he escorted him across the alley to 
where the old German, by the light of several 
tallow tips and rushlights, was harnessing his 
spike team of giant roan-colored Conestoga 
horses. The old trader liked the lad’s looks, 
so consented to run the risk, agreeing to carry 
him until they reached a spot where he could 
be liberated with safety. Just as he was 
climbing into the heavy conveyance Katie made 
her appearance with a packet of provisions. 
“ You have all been very good to me,” said the 
Indian, quite overcome by such an exhibition 
of thoughtfulness. “ Young lady, I will never 
forget how you saved my life; perhaps a day 
will come when I can do as much for you. 
Good night.” This was the longest speech in 
English he had ever made. His vocabulary 
was exhausted, and if an Indian can be em- 


52 


Indian Steps 


barrassed he felt that way; so he hid himself 
forthwith behind the folds of the canvas cover 
of the wagon. Once inside he crouched among 
baskets of goods. He might have been a bale 
of cloth, he doubled himself up so completely. 
In the darkness he could thing of nothing 
else except the plump, trim little figure of 
Katie Bigland, with her round face, frank blue 
eyes, and light, wavy, brown hair. She was 
his light; he was leaving her and going out 
into the darkness in more ways than one. 
Katie, to use a local expression, “ wasn’t worth 
much for work” for a full week after the de- 
parture ofithe young Indian. This would have 
brought down on her head the wrath of her 
industrious aunt at any other time but this. 
Now, the jail premises were topsy-turvy, the 
jail building was tumbling down, corpses were 
being buried, blood, teeth, and hair were being 
gathered up in every direction, gruesome relics 
of the needless massacre of the Lenni Lenape. 
In due time Katie’s spirits returned — that is 
to a certain extent — but she was never as light- 
hearted as of yore. It wasn’t the memory of 
the massacre that oppressed her; it was the 


Indian Steps 


53 


passing of the first person of the opposite sex 
she had liked. Transformed into modern 
phraseology, “ she had lost her first love.” First 
loves are lost almost as regularly as “ first 
teeth,” but often the second, third, or fourth 
love gets even more devotion than he deserves. 
With Katie, she had almost a heart-full of 
sincere affection left, which she bestowed, when 
in her eighteenth year, on Anthony Stouch, a 
sturdy young farmer from Warwick Township. 
Anthony had outgrown the civilized conditions 
of Lancaster, and suggested that Katie and he 
take up a homestead in the vicinity of Muncy 
Town. She was only too glad to become an 
individual in a new country. She was tired 
of being a dependent nobody in a narrow, 
provincial town. There were many settlers in 
the Muncy region, a medley of Germans, Scotch- 
Irish, Quakers, Welsh and Huguenots. There 
were too many to suit the preconceived ideas 
of Anthony and Katie as to what a truly back- 
woods country should be. They traded their 
land with a Frenchman named Emile Letort 
for a claim far in the wilderness, on the upper 
reaches of the West Branch. The Frenchman 


54 


Indian Steps 


accompanied them as guide, and they enjoyed 
every step of the journey. It was just what 
they wanted; they were going into the track- 
less wilds where game of all descriptions 
abounded. Elk and deer were innumerable; 
there were small herds of buffaloes, and fur- 
bearing animals of all kinds. Wild pigeons 
darkened the sun by their flights ; they could be 
easily netted, and made excellent eating. 
Immense flocks of parrots sometimes gave a 
fresh coloring of green to the leafless trees in 
the fall. Nature seemed to make a special effort 
to welcome and feed newcomers. The moun- 
tains were high and imposing, and covered with 
pine trees which appeared to pierce the celestial 
canopy. There was an atmosphere of space, 
freedom, good health. It was an ideal country 
to begin life in. The Frenchman’s tract lay 
not far from the mouth of Hyner Run, a nice 
stretch of rich bottom land, free from stones, 
and easily cleared. The young couple were 
perfectly happy. They could not have been 
better suited had they made the spot them- 
selves, so they said again and again. The 
Frenchman, genial soul, was happy because 


Indian Steps 


55 


they were, and insisted on staying with them 
until they enlarged the cabin and built a barn. 
The happy pair prospered from the start. 
Eight children were born to them, good crops 
were raised, they enjoyed satisfactory health; 
there was little more to be desired. There 
was only one disquieting element. Roving 
bands of uglv-visaged Indians often camped 
in the vicinity of the farm. They were always 
asking favors and begging, and acted with ill- 
concealed meanness if these were refused. 
Rumors of occasional fights between Indians 
and settlers often came to their ears, but the 
brave-hearted Anthony and Katie felt they 
could hold their own against any of them if 
they wanted trouble. However, when a family 
named McCabe, consisting of husband, wife and 
four half-grown children, who lived at the next 
clearing two miles further up the river, were 
brutally murdered, supposedly by Indians, it 
began to look as if they were on dangerous 
ground. Then came a period of calm lasting 
six months. Anthony Stouch began going on 
his hunting trips — buffaloes were becoming 
scarce— leaving his wife at home with a loaded 


56 


Indian Steps 


rifle, to guard the premises and the children. 
Sometimes upon his return she would tell him 
how she had seen a bear skulking across the 
upper end of the sheep pasture, or almost ran 
into a wolf near the smokehouse, but nothing 
worse than that. One overcast, misty morning 
in the fall, when Anthony was absent on one 
of his trips, Katie was in the garden lot “ rais- 
ing^ potatoes. Everything was quiet about her ; 
the giant original pines on the edge of the 
clearing had temporarily ceased their sighing; 
they were an unhappy lot, and probably fore- 
saw their total annihilation within the next 
hundred years. The river was low, and made 
no sound as it ran over the slippery brown 
rocks, where at times it roared vociferously. 
The children had gone down to the water’s edge 
to fish — the eldest, named Hamilton, a boy of 
seventeen, had developed into an expert salmon 
fisherman. The good woman was working 
away, humming an Irish song as only a person 
with a clear conscience can. The potatoes 
were large, as the season, being dry, had 
favored the crop. All at once a terrific yell 
resounded through the narrow valley. Katie 


Indian Steps 


57 


Stouck knew what it meant. She had been 
surprised by Indians. She had become so sure 
of herself that she had left the rifle on the 
stump fence, and ran after it, as fast as she 
could over the rough ground. Before she 
reached it, three tall, gaunt savages loomed out 
of the fog between her and the fence. She 
was cut off from her means of safety. She 
resolved to die bravely, and calmed herself by 
the thought that the children, on hearing the 
war-whoop, had secreted themselves. The 
tallest Indian rushed up to her, and laid his 
great tawny hands on her shoulders. She 
smiled at him, resolving to be unlike a girl she 
had heard of near Muncy Town who died of 
fright when an Indian laid hands on her. The 
Indian’s eyes met hers; there was a look of 
recognition that was mutual. “ Where did I 
see you before, lady?” said the redman, in 
English that had the merest trace of Irish 
brogue to it. There was something in the buff 
color of his complexion, so different from that 
of any other Indian she had seen, that made 
her understand. “ I knew you when you were 
in the jail at Lancaster twenty-ftve years ago. 


58 


Indian Steps 


I’m Katie Bigland.” The other Indians looked 
at one another in disappointment. What 
promised to be a bloody butchering affray was 
turning into a family reunion. “ Yes, you're 
Katie Bigland, the little girl who taught me 
English and hid me in the chimney and saved 
my life. I owe you everything for that. I 
beg your humble pardon for my attack on you 
now.” “ Never mind that,” said Katie, her 
assurance fully restored, and smiling broadly 
with her open blue eyes, “ I’m glad you came 
after me. If it had been somebody else she’d 
have been scalped; so no harm’s done.” The 
eight children had heard the war-cry and run 
to cover ; but on hearing nothing further came 
out, and with youthful curiosity crept on their 
hands and knees to the edge of the potato 
patch, where they had last seen their mother. 
Through gaps in the stump fence they saw her, 
to their utter mystification, engaged in a 
friendly conversation with three fierce-looking 
savages. They knew it was a pleasant talk, 
as they could hear their mother’s merry laugh. 
Finally Hamilton’s head appeared over the top 
of the fence, and his mother saw him. “ Come 


Indian Steps 


59 


here, children,” she called. When they climbed 
over the fence with the agility of young In- 
dians, she presented them one by one to the 
three redmen. “ Children, this is Mr. Blue 
Cloud; this is Mr. Bog Bilberry; this is Mr. 
Winter Cress.” The young folks were amazed 
to meet Indians, about whom they had always 
heard such awful tales, on terms of social inter- 
course. They could scarcely credit their senses ; 
it was like making the personal acquaintance 
of the devil. They were still more amazed 
when they heard their mother invite the In- 
dians to remain for dinner. They all accepted 
with alacrity, and sat on the grass until the 
meal was ready. Blue Cloud was the only one 
of the trio who could speak English, that is, 
well enough to be understood, and amused the 
younger children by showing them his rifle 
and scalping-knife and explaining the “ signa- 
ture” on the leaves of a liver-leaf plant, while 
the cooking went on. By the time the dinner 
was over, children and Indians were as friendly 
as if they had been acquainted since birth. 
“ One touch of nature makes the whole world 
kin.” When they were ready to leave, Blue 


60 


Indian Steps 


Cioud asked Katie if he could have a few 
words with her alone. They walked together 
to the spring on the hillside at the rear of the 
house, where they conversed for ten minutes. 
“ Why did you become a bad Indian ?” said 
Katie, thus heading off the redman’s probable 
efforts to justify himself. “ I became a bad 
Indian because I had to; I was forced to see 
my race butchered unjustly on every side; I 
was denied a living, even the right to walk on 
the earth. I have seen my friends shot down 
at my side in cold blood. I have been present 
at massacres of whole villages that would make 
that butchery by the ‘ Paxton Boys’ at Lan- 
caster jail appear as nothing. I have seen our 
lands stolen, our game slaughtered, our people 
misrepresented. It was a case of reprisal with 
me ; by vengeance alone could I live. If I was 
a peaceable Indian I would be a victim of 
treachery. If I lived by murder, I had a 
chance to survive. If white people feared me I 
could keep my distance; if they didn’t and 
approached me I would surely die. That is 
how I am living now, after nearly twenty-five 
years of remorseless persecution. In truth, 


Indian Steps 


61 


the Indian has all the right on his side ; he did 
not draw first blood. He will never have any 
historians; his memory will only persist in 
vengeance. A few whites are slain, it is true, 
but an entire race of Indians is being wiped 
out by the white men. I am forced to be what 
I am. I am sorry I happened upon you in my 
travels, but if it hadn’t been you, I would have 
scalped woman, children and all. I cared a 
lot for you ; I often thought of you, but I never 
expected to meet you again. Please forgive 
me.” Katie looked him squarely in the face 
and said, “ There may be justice in what you 
say, but I cannot see things from your point 
of view. The murder of any woman is wrong; 
confine yourself to the men, if you must kill, 
and history will not be unjust. I will forgive 
you for your attempt to butcher a defenceless 
woman and children if you will promise to lead 
a new life henceforth. Go beyond the Alle- 
gheny if the settlers won’t let you alone here, 
but ‘ sin no more.’ I thought you were a right 
decent young lad ; I liked you in the old days ; 
don’t make me change my opinion.” Her voice 
was serious and determined, and her words had 


62 


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their effect. Holding out his hand the Indian 
took hers and clasped it in the compact. And 
Central Pennsylvania knew no more of P»Hie 
Cloud. 


III. 


THE FAIRY PARKS 


ATRIES in Central Pennsyl- 
vania? Why, certainly there 
are, lots of them hereabouts,” 
said old man Bomeister, as he 
emptied his corncob pipe 
against the rock on which we sat 
under the mountain-ash tree. 
“ Right down the Pike is where 
they make their headquarters — they’ve been 
dancing and playing there now for over fifty 
years, and they’re increasing in numbers as 
fast as dandelions. Every year they’re mak- 
ing new parks, or playgrounds, until now 
they’re more than a dozen of them between the 
top of Grindstone Hill and where the road 
dips to go down to Pine Creek.” I had often 
noticed these parks, or circular patches of trees 
and green sward, and admired their beauty, 
wondering at their odd form, and apparent 
immunity from forest fires. Now it was all 
being explained to me. “ The little people 

63 




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make a ring on the first night of the new 
moon/’ the old man continued, “and dance 
around it until the moon goes down that night. 
After that the fires can’t pass their boundary, 
the trees grow nicely and the grass stays green. 
Travellers like to rest there and pasture their 
horses — they always seem to have cool breezes 
to spare, for the Fairies have the kindliest and 
most lovable feelings towards mankind ; they 
want to make things pleasant for them. But 
on moonlight nights, then’s when you see the 
fun ; the parks swarm with the gay little folks, 
but they are so shy it’s difficult for a person 
to see them first. I don’t believe Fairies are 
native to America — I never heard tell of any in 
Pennsylvania except our little colony along 
the Pike. They wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t 
for one old woman ; she hated to leave the 
Fatherland unless she could bring some Fair- 
ies with her. At first her relatives objected, 
but she had her way and brought a dozen of 
them in a black bag. I’ve often heard niv par- 
ents tell the story; they came from the same 
village in Wurtemberg as Gran’mam Swartz, 
the old lady who fetched the Fairies. When 



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Indian Steps 


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she was .young Lotte Rudesehli, they say that 
she was the prettiest girl for miles and miles — 
the prettiest blonde that imagination could 
conjure up. She was much given to wandering 
in the woods, especially on moonlight nights, 
and the neighbors would have ascribed this to 
sentimentality if she hadn’t been so indifferent 
to the young men. Some thought she met a 
lover in the forest depths, nothing else could 
take a girl alone into such secluded localities. 
But it was a long time before any one had the 
courage to follow her, she seemed so haughty 
and reserved. There was a young man in the 
village named Wilhelm Swartz, a sort of 
country gallant, whom all the girls, except 
Lotte Rudesehli, the solitary wanderer, had 
loved at one time or another. Her indifference 
piqued him to such an extent that he came to 
sincerely love the one girl who wouldn’t notice 
him. Often he had the desire to follow her 
on her lonely rambles; he had a jealous im- 
pulse to meet her secret lover and drive him 
away. But he feared the villagers would see 
him follow her into the forest, and twit him 
when he came back shame faced and with hang- 


66 


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ing head. But one evening, it was the first 
night of a new moon, and the silvery crescent 
was dancing above the tops of the tall spruces, 
as he walked along through the sweet-scented 
woods he came upon a place that the path led 
down a steep hillside, where a brook tumbled 
along beneath the giant trees. Through an 
opening in the evergreen boughs he could see 
quite a distance ahead of him. To his amaze- 
ment he saw Lotte Rudesehli seated on a mossy 
log surrounded not by one, but by a hundred 
admirers. They w'ere not big, stalwart lads 
like himself, but tiny chaps, scarcely a foot 
high, clad in tight-fitting suits of green and 
yellow. They held hands as they danced 
about her, sometimes breaking into weird little 
songs in a minor key. Many little women, 
dressed in bodiced skirts of the same colors sat 
nearby on little hillocks or bunches of grass. 
Lotte seemed to be their queen, and was as 
radiantly happy as her company. It seemed a 
pity to break in on such a merry, innocent 
scene, and Wilhelm would not have done so 
intentionally. In an effort to draw nearer to 
obtain a better view he stepped on a dry root 


Indian Steps 


67 


which cracked audibly. Lotte looked up, recog- 
nizing him instantly, while the Fairy band 
scampered out of sight under leaves, stumps, 
rocks and logs with all the alacrity of chip- 
munks. Lotte had too equable a disposition 
naturally, and was in too happy a frame of 
mind at this particular moment to mind the 
intrusion, and accepted Wilhelm’s profuse 
apologies with smiling good will. They had 
known one another, though not well, for a long 
time, so it did not seem like being too forward 
when the young man seated himself beside her 
on the moss-grown log. Nervously plucking a 
fern he began talking to her as if they had met 
under the most ordinary circumstances, and 
not as the result of his breaking up a Fairy 
merry-go-round. Strange as it may seem, Lotte 
treated him better on this occasion than she 
ever had before, or any other man for that 
matter. He was so good-looking, he had such 
wonderful expression, and never showed off 
to better advantage than this night, bathed 
in ghastly moon-ravs. He was tactful enough 
to make no allusion to the party he had dis- 
turbed, and as she made no effort to explain, it 


Indian Steps 


seemed to be the one subject unmentioned dur- 
ing their blissful tryst in the forest. ‘ What 
will my parents say/ gasped Lotte, putting her 
hand to her head in a gesture of terror as she 
noticed the hands of the village clock pointing 
to two as they neared her home. But whether 
they protested or not, or even knew when she 
got home, is not a part of the story. Wilhelm 
had started on a successful wooing; nothing 
could stop him now. How far he progressed 
that night is also a mystery, but he doubtless 
kissed her — who could have protested on such 
a beautiful night? It was soon noticed by the 
villagers that Wilhelm Swartz always accom- 
panied Lotte on her rambles into the forest. 
If she had been meeting some one else pre- 
viously, clearly that suitor had fallen into dis- 
favor, or it might be she had been meeting 
Wilhelm all along. But that couldn’t be the 
case either; he had been noticed too many 
times gazing after her ruefully, cap in hand, 
as she disappeared into the shadowy depths. 
Her conduct had always been a mystery any- 
way; this interest in Wilhelm, so handsome 
and strong, was the one normal act of her life. 


Indian Steps 


69 


About this time there was great talk in the 
little mountainous community about emigrat- 
ing to America. Land could be bought out- 
right very cheap in all the States, especially in 
Pennsylvania, which was said to teem with 
prosperous Germans. Some few had gone over 
already, and wrote back glowing accounts of 
the riches of the new country, but above all the 
social equality and opportunities which 
awaited every one. There were no landlords, 
no supercilious nobility, any one could rise 
who had energy and a fair share of adapta- 
bility. Wolfgang Kudesehli and his good wife 
Minne, the parents of Lotte, caught the pass- 
ing enthusiasm. They began corresponding 
with a neighbor who was in Northern Pennsyl- 
vania, and that individual, to make sure of 
them, had the foreign agents of several land 
companies in Philadelphia visit their home, 
and paint pictures that can only be described 
as glorious. Why the emigrants in the wild 
Pennsylvania hills were so anxious that more 
of their kind should follow them may be as- 
cribed to two reasons. They may have been 
lonesome for more friends from i home, or, 


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like the monkey with his tail off, wanted others 
in the same predicament. There was only one 
member of the Rudesehli family who objected 
to the proposed change of destiny, and that was 
Lotte. Her older brothers and sisters thought 
the idea a grand one; they were tired of being 
branded as ‘ peasants,’ tired of filling a place 
in life from which caste would give them no 
escape. They would go to a land of freedom, 
where their children might become Presidents. 
Lotte, hitherto the proudest of the family, was 
the only one who wanted to remain. ‘ You 
can be a great lady over there,’ her brothers 
urged; but this appeal to her vanity, once so 
potent, was of avail no longer. Wilhelm 
Swartz had always cherished a secret hanker- 
ing for the ‘ new world,’ and when he heard 
the talk in the Rudesehli household, told his 
sweetheart he would gladly go along. They 
could marry just as well in Pennsylvania as 
in Wurtemberg— easier in fact. They did not 
publish ‘ banns’ over there, no tests or quali- 
fications were required of candidates for mar- 
ital happiness in the ‘ land of the free.’ But 
to his surprise Lotte said she was not going ; 


Indian Steps 


71 


the others could go, but she would remain. It 
took some time for Wilhelm to learn her 
reason ; had she not been so much in love with 
him, it would have been impossible — a woman 
regards a reason as the one secret she can 
keep. But finally she confessed why she was 
so wedded to the hills of old Wurtemberg. Ore 
night when she was a wee girl, so she said, 
she had strayed into the forest. Evening was 
coming on, and everything gleamed so clear- 
cut in the final cadences of the golden hour. 
The pines and spruces seemed to the tiniest 
needle carved out of the transpareut ether. 
The air seemed so sweet it must have been 
freshly let loose from realms celestial. She 
had sat down to rest by the waterfall, which 
created its own little rainbow in the maze of 
froth and spray. She was entranced by the 
scene — anybody, young or old, would have been 
—until she was aroused from her contempla- 
tions by the sound of squeaky voices, like old 
men talking far away— only these voices were 
near at hand. Presently she saw the speakers 
—they were a horde of tiny Fairies, nothing 
else, clad in tight-fitting suits of yellow and 


72 


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green. They waved their hands to her, and 
made every effort to become acquainted. She 
wasn’t a bit frightened; there were such merry 
twinkles in the little fellows’ eyes that they 
surely meant no harm. She waved to them, 
and they came close to where she sat, and 
began conversing in a friendly, cheerful man- 
ner. Once they were at their ease, and a troop 
of little lady Fairies, dressed in bodiced skirts 
of bright colors, came out of the underbrush 
and sought the young girl’s acquaintance. 
Their spokesman explained to her they had 
always regretted the gulf which existed be- 
tween them and the ‘ big people,’ but in her 
they had found a ‘ happy medium.’ They 
could love her; would she consent to become 
their queen? Lotte at that time didn’t have 
a very definite idea what the word ‘ queen’ 
meant, but she had heard that there was one 
in Wurtemberg, so high above her subjects that 
many doubted she was of the same clay. Yes, 
she would become their queen gladly, if it 
would do them any good. The Fairies were 
delighted; they joined hands and danced 
about her singing gayly. When she returned 


Indian Steps 


73 


home she had difficulty in explaining to her 
family what had kept her so long in the forest 
— she had lost her way, that was the best 
excuse her childish shrewdness could invent. 
After that it was difficult to restrain her from 
wandering in the forest. Threats of punish- 
ment were unavailing; she was naturally a 
headstrong girl and the family pet, so she 
knew her family really meant nothing. As she 
grew older the family began to realize that 
her solitary strolls were harmless; they had 
heard of people k loving nature/ their daughter 
must be one of these strange creatures. But 
it was her duty as Queen of the Fairies to go 
among her subjects as often as possible. She 
made a gracious queen, as she grew in loveli- 
ness and charm with each succeeding year. 
But love for a mortal had come into her life, 
and her family wanted to emigrate to America. 
Her lover was also anxious to go to the new 
country — everything seemed to point to her 
departure from her Fairy kingdom. She was 
unhappy now for the first time in the eighteen 
years of her life; her brow, formerly smooth 
as marble, now showed lines of thought. She 


74 


Indian Steps 


was sure she loved Wilhelm dearly; her family 
had always been good to her, but how could 
she leave the ‘ little people’ who had elected 
her their queen? Wilhelm’s pleadings pre- 
vailed ; after shedding a few tears she resolved 
to go. She was not a sneak nor a coward ; she 
resolved to break the news to her tiny subjects 
before starting on the long journey. One night 
in June, when the new moon had appeared, she 
went to the Fairy rendezvous accompanied by 
Wilhelm. Calling her beloved subjects about 
her she explained to them the step she was 
about to take. Her voice was choked with 
sobs, but every one of her audience understood 
why her love for her sweetheart and family 
should be the controlling motive in her life. 
Just when she finished talking one little shrill 
voice piped up, ‘ May I go with you ?’ Imme- 
diately all the others clustered about her, tak- 
ing up the same refrain, ‘ May we go along, 
may we go with you?’ They held Lotte’s hands 
tightly, and some clambered all over Wilhelm, 
striving like squirrels to hide themselves in 
the pockets of his velveteen jacket. Their de- 
mands were so sincere and importunate that 


Indian Steps 


75 


the young girl smilingly declared that she 
would take as many Fairies with her to Amer- 
ica as she could carry in a wool-sack. There 
was a cheer from the little people; they would 
follow her to the ends of the earth, they in- 
sisted. But a process of selection must be 
made — which Fairies should go, which should 
remain. It was decided to draw lots with 
twigs of hazel after Wilhelm would come back 
with the wool-sack. He started to the village, 
returning with a sack of black material such 
as was used in those days. The lots were 
drawn ; a long twig meant ‘ go,’ a short one 
( stay,’ until the bag was filled. Twelve Fairies, 
six men, six women, were chosen, and hid their 
smiling faces in the hot, stuffy sack. The 
others kissed the fortunate ones ‘ goodbye,’ and 
with no recriminations, danced away to their 
homes under the rocks and roots. Wilhelm 
saw to it that air-holes were provided so that 
the little voyagers would not be smothered— 
for Fairies are in a sense human — they are 
like us except that there are no diseases among 
them— they are in a sense immortal. Two 
days later the Budesehli family, accompanied 


76 


Indian Steps 


by the faithful Wilhelm Swartz, began their 
tedious journey to the ‘ land of promise/ It 
was fraught with untold inconveniences and de- 
lays in those days. By 4 diligence’ and goods 
train, interrupted by frequent changes of con- 
veyance, they proceeded to Paris. Wilhelm 
and Lotte had many adventures with the wool- 
sack, to be sure. To the old folks and in- 
quisitive brothers and sisters it contained kit- 
tens, rabbits, white rats, Fairies, anything — to 
the baggage and customs officials, vegetables, 
meats; clothing, whatever seemed advisable. 
Wilhelm was well provided with money, but 
it ate into his store to 1 tip’ every one into 
silence who might question the well -filled wool- 
sack. Many complications would otherwise 
have arisen, especially in France, where none 
of the party knew a word of the prevailing 
language. It was a critical trip for Wilhelm; 
he had promised Lotte to see that her little 
friends reached America in safety; he could 
not disappoint in his first real effort to aug- 
ment her happiness. The party embarked on a 
sailing vessel at Havre, and were three months 
at sea, alternately becalmed and tempest- 


Indian Steps 


77 


tossed. Lotte kept the ‘ little people’ in her 
bunk by day, but let them out at night, to 
scamper about the decks, sometimes scaring 
the other passengers, who thought the ship 
bewitched. But they were too agile to be 
captured, or even be wholly seen by outsiders. 
They were fed with what Lotte and Wilhelm 
could snatch from the mess, and also with 
nuts, berries and roots, their favorite food, 
brought along for this purpose. The customs 
officers at old Castle Garden couldn’t have 
been very alert at that time, for the mysterious 
black wool sack passed through unmolested. 
It is said that an ‘ O. K. ; U. S. Customs’ was 
tied on it. It may be that Fairies are provi- 
dentially lucky; they have to be if they are 
immortals. Outside the imposing building 
one of the old neighbors, Carl Aeschlimann,who 
had lived near the Budesehli’s in Wurtemberg, 
was waiting. He greeted them with a wild 
burst of delight. Here were people, his people, 
who had actually seen his beloved hills and 
vales and waterfalls, in dear old Wurtemberg, 
a little less than four months ago, while he 
had not seen them in sixteen long, toilsome 


78 


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years. There was also a representative of the 
real estate company at the landing; he would 
help pilot and install them in their new home 
in Pennsylvania. Then they were escorted up 
Broadway, marvelling at the wonders of New 
York, across the waters of the Hudson in a 
ramshackly ferry-boat, and aboard a train for 
Philadelphia. At the City of Brotherly Love 
they spent the night, starting away the next 
morning, changing cars three or four times un- 
til they reached a place called Antes Fort, on a 
railroad which they were told had just been 
completed two months befdre. The engines 
were wood-burners, and moved slowly enough 
through the country, so that they could ad- 
mire its fertility and grandeur. They mar- 
velled at the number of persons who got in the 
cars, who looked like Americans but who spoke 
a dialect that sounded like German. At Antes 
Fort two teams were waiting to convey them 
on the last stage of their journey, to the un- 
cleared tract of land on the Pike which they 
were to make ‘ blossom like the rose.’ Most 
of the way the road led through a virgin forest 
— the trees were even taller than in the Father- 


Ind an Steps 


79 


land, the waterfalls wilder, the silence more 
intense. At length they came to a small open- 
ing in the forest, made by cutting the trees so 
that they fell against their standing neighbors. 
In the centre of it was a log shack — they use 
it now for a woodshed — here the Rudesehlis 
were to stay until they cleared more land and 
built a more respectable abode. The tract they 
had bought comprised one hundred and sixty 
acres, ‘ more or less/ so the deeds ran. It was 
past dark when they arrived, so that they could 
not tell whether they were pleased or not, but 
they were probably too tired to care. Soon a 
new moon appeared, shimmering between gal- 
axies of unstable stars. Wilhelm and Lotte 
had noted a cozy little nook along the road — 
it was near a waterfall and a spring — where 
they decided to liberate the Fairy band. After 
partaking of a light supper, they were too ex- 
cited to eat much, they started down the Pike, 
carrying the bag between them. When they 
reached the pretty spot, they emptied the sack ; 
the little people shouted in treble ecstasies of 
joy, and began dancing merrily. They formed 
a circle and danced about the couple who had 


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safely carried them so far. The young couple 
had much work ahead of them, so they probably 
took less notice of their surroundings hence- 
forth than the Fairies. The ‘ little people’ 
were immensely pleased; it was their Black 
Forest over again, but on an amplified scale. 
Lotte intended visiting them each night, but 
she felt so tired she postponed it a week. One 
night the family heard an awful screaming and 
wailing in the wilderness; it sounded like some 
frail woman in distress. They were all for 
running out with torches to find her, until 
Carl Aeschlimann who was still stopping with 
them, explained that it was a panther, or as he 
pronounced it a ‘ pon-tare,’ an animal bigger 
and more rapacious than the traditional lions 
of the Bible. All the family except Lotte were 
satisfied by this explanation, but it only made 
the girl more uneasy. ‘ I’m afraid,’ she whis- 
pered to Wilhelm, 1 that it has eaten my little 
people, and enjoying them, has come to devour 
us.’ Next night she went in fear and trembling 
to the Fairy abode, and called to the little 
colony. To her surprise they all responded, 
and danced and sang about her gleefully. ‘ 1 


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81 


feared you were all eaten by that awful mon- 
ster which screamed around our cabin last 
night. I never expected to see you again !’ The 
Fairies laughed outright; ‘ Panther eat us? 
Never fear, it did chase us, but we were too 
quick.’ Lotte was reassured, and on succeed- 
ing nights when she heard the panthers’ wail 
and wolves’ call she knew her little friends 
were safe. They thrived in their new home; 
children were born to them — for Fairies are 
partly human — they were happy. Lotte mar- 
ried Wilhelm the next spring, but continued 
her visits to the Fairy home, even after her own 
children were born. Occasionally, Wilhelm ac- 
companied her. At times she would say she 
would go back to Wurtemberg for a visit be- 
fore she died, and take the Fairies along, but 
for some reason they didn’t enthuse; it can 
only be surmised that they were not senti- 
mental. Fairies own no Fatherland. As she 
grew older and especially after Wilhelm’s 
death, Lotte became known as Gran-mam 
Swartz, and her connection with the Fairy 
colony was generally acknowledged. Even her 
children admitted she was a trifle queer, and 


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her grandchildren were even more positive of 
it. But she pursued the even tenor of her 
way, a good wife and mother, hard-working and 
plodding, until in her seventieth year, from the 
infirmities of age, she passed away. She was 
buried in the little mountaineers’ cemetery on 
Grindstone Hill, and her grave is marked by a 
rough slab of mountain brownstone. They say, 
and I’ll admit I’ve seen it myself once, that on 
a certain June night, when the young moon 
first comes up from behind the Bald Eagle 
Mountains, the Fairy band, old and young, 
congregate there and dance daintily — which 
seems to be their only form of worship — about 
the ivy-grown mound.” 


IV. 


HERMIT’S SECRET 

N walking trips I always liked to 
spend a night with old Jackson 
Ererhard at his comfortable 
cottage on the hill back of 
Cammal, where the road 
branches off that crosses Bendel 
Point. I enjoyed my brief 
visits with the old hermit; he 
many original ideas, which he 
thought out during long periods of solitude on 
the mountain top. My fondness for hermits, 
which began in 1900, when I met old Pierre 
Bayle, who lived at the foot of one of the 
famous Knobs of Clearfield County, seemed 
to grow w r ith the years. I could readily under- 
stand the point of view which drove them into 
the wilderness. It is hard to pursue an idea 
or stick to one subject amid the turmoil of the 
city. Persons cherishing a bitter disappoint- 
ment, or bent on solving some intricate prob- 
lem, can best indulge themselves far from the 

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habitations of men. A man who does not 
think, or one dependent upon petty gossip or 
excitement, can never fully cut himself off from 
the world. A possessor of beautiful thoughts 
can do so readily, as they grow and develop 
amid quietude. Jackson Everhard claimed 
that he was a hermit because he wanted to 
watch his coal lands grow into value. “ If I 
lived in Williamsport or Sunbury I could 
never estimate their true worth; some one else 
would reap the benefits.” It was his belief 
that his six-hundred-acre tract of land was un- 
derlaid with the most valuable coal deposits 
in Northern Pennsylvania. “ Those rich people 
who own the land all around mine aren’t selling 
theirs off ; I may as well watch mine, and open 
it some day myself.” He had estimated the 
coal to be worth at least a million dollars, and 
had drawn up elaborate papers for the in- 
corporation of a coal company capitalized in 
the six figures, of which he was to be president, 
and which would take him from obscurity and 
make him a man of affairs. But this wasn’t to 
be done until the long-discussed railroad which 
was to penetrate the coal fields became a 


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85 


reality, or the “ rich people” who owned the 
surrounding territory made a move to operate. 
Meanwhile the old man, who had moved to the 
mountain top at the close of the Civil War, had 
sacrificed first the saw-timber, then the props, 
and lastly the ties, to keep alive until he 
opened “ his gold mine of coal.” He was also 
writing a book to show the fallacy of religion, 
how it had hampered the work of civilization 
and enlightenment. This was a much-worn 
theme, except that it was discussed from Jack- 
son Everhard’s point of view, which was de- 
cidedly original. He occasionally read me 
choice excerpts, but his favorite quotations 
were from the preface, which explained why 
he had turned against the teachings of the 
church. It was during the Civil War when he 
was on picket duty in Tennessee. At the next 
post, the sentry was a young theological 
student, who enlisted as a moral duty to help 
save his country. Near his post was a spring, 
and one dark night a lurking confederate made 
a desperate effort to get a drink from it. 
Crawling on hands and knees as silently as he 
could, he was within a few feet of the refresh- 


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ing source, when the alert ears of the churchly 
sentry heard the cracking of some twigs. He 
shouted in the direction from whence the faint 
noises came, but received no answer. He put 
his rifle to his shoulder and deliberately fired 
into the thicket where he imagined the in- 
truder was hiding. There was a groan and a 
shriek; he had evidently hit a living object. 
Hurrying down the hill he found that he had 
shot a young confederate soldier through the 
throat, and that he would be dead in a few 
minutes. Stooping down on his knees beside 
the dying man he gave him the last consolation 
of the church. “ That was too much for me,” 
said the hermit, “A system that in two thou- 
sand years hasn’t gotten humanity above such 
barbarous conduct deserves to be blotted out; 
it’s hindering human progress; it’s the cause 
of all our scallywags.” We had heard this 
and much worse before, but I was convinced of 
one thing — Jackson Everhard was true to his 
ideals; he was honest, truthful, honorable — 
1 had never met a man of purer life. His pets 
consisted of a family of bluebirds, which came 
annually to occupy a box which was nailed to 


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the top of a tall, swaying pole by the garden 
fence. “ Blue birds prefer poles that swing a 
bit in the winds; its more like the tree-tops.” 
A man who could watch birds for hours, and 
make them his companions, was surely a being 
of simple, unspoiled nature. No man who 
loves birds can be bad. I asked him why he 
had never married — a wife of the right sort 
might have lived comfortably on the summit. 
Instead of a two-roomed shanty, a commodious 
square mansion, like those on Oregon Hill, 
would probably have occupied the site. In- 
stead of five acres cleared, two hundred acres of 
the tract would now be under cultivation, I 
suggested. ‘‘Yes, the right sort of woman 
could have done all that, but where could she 
be found ?” Then he told me that he had never 
enjoyed what other men call a “ love affair.” 
He was too short and homely, he said, to be 
attractive physically to the girls. They pre- 
ferred taller and handsomer men. Sometimes, 
if homely men were rich they got married, but 
they never had their wives’ love. “ Being poor, 
no woman could be attracted to me by any- 
thing except my personality, and that wasn’t 


Indian Steps 


the kind that the dear girls wanted.” To my 
eyes, the old man wasn’t homely at all. He 
was short, probably four inches shorter than 
I am, but he had a large and well-shaped head, 
steady, transparent blue eyes, a nose inclined 
to the aquiline, and quantities of light brown 
hair that the weight of seventy years had not 
diminished. He wore a long beard, which was 
brown and curling. Many men grow beards 
after they have been disappointed in love, so 
I have read. But we were many hours to- 
gether, and the true story of his life was eventu- 
ally, little by little, revealed to me. Finally I 
was able to piece it together. In reality he 
blamed the Universe for not giving him the 
same success in love that it had to most every 
other man. The story of the theological sentry, 
with his gospel of blood and absolution, was 
only a blind to his true sentiments. His dream 
of vast riches originated only in his desire to 
look successful in the eyes of one woman who 
had turned cold to him long years before in 
old Jacobsburg. He had known her from 
earliest childhood, and loved her as far back 
as he could remember. She was very beauti- 


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ful, that is, beautiful for Jacobsburg, I sup- 
pose; was really intelligent and cultivated. 
But she never paid much attention to the un- 
dersized Jackson Everhard when handsome 
men were around. He felt his physical limita- 
tions keenly, and tried to ease his wounded soul 
by seeking the society of other young girls." 
But the result was always the same; he was 
tolerated until handsomer men appeared. He 
tried to dress as well as he could afford, read 
books, think pure thoughts, cultivate his 
powers of conversation, but he was hopeless in 
the eyes of the women. He only went to the 
war to make himself heroic. The one girl’s 
indifference pained him most. It seemed so 
unjust of nature to treat him so roughly. This 
was accentuated when she married the village 
rake, a tall, handsome fellow, with no morals 
nor means of support. This marriage was the 
crowning blow. His war record was unavail- 
ing, everything was useless, so he decided to 
quit the unappreciative world. From relatives 
he borrowed enough money to buy the six- 
liundred-acre tract on the remote mountain 
top ; land was cheap then, and there he retired 


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in 1867. He knew before he left that his 
sweetheart’s marriage was most unhappy, and 
her sorrows bowed him to the earth. They 
mattered more to him than they did to her, for 
she had the physical possession of a handsome 
man she loved; he had nothing but a phantom, 
which he did not possess. But he was sure 
he had located on land of vast mineral wealth. 
It would some day make him one of the finan- 
cial powers of the Commonwealth. His only 
love would realize how unkind she had been to 
a really remarkable, sagacious man. But 
nature loves to deepen wounds. Years went 
by, and no railroad nor development appeared 
to bring the coal into market. He refused to 
let outsiders prospect it; he would not discuss 
terms of sale to various capitalists who might 
have bought it on speculation ; he would do it 
his way, and become richer than them all in 
time. But it would take time. The girl back 
in Jacobsburg had been a mother and a grand- 
mother on quite a few occasions; her life was 
drifting on, yet he hadn’t made his strike to 
impress her. “ The veins are deeper on my 
property than anywhere else on these moun- 


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tains,” he would say. “ They taper down to 
thin seams when they reach the land owned by 
those rich people. I will make more out of 
my six hundred acres than they will from their 
six thousand. I don’t expect to ever see my 
old SAveetheart again, but I want her to know 
I've done well in this world.” It certainly re- 
quired much patience to wait until a turn of 
events would bring him into prominence, but as 
Jackson Everhard’s life had brought him noth- 
ing, he could easily wait for something. Last 
summer Bill and I tramped up the mountain 
road one hot afternoon in August. The route 
would have seemed long had we not overtaken 
old Martin Hampe on the way. He told us 
about a small flock of wild pigeons that nested 
on the steep mountain facing Pine Creek, and 
every day visited Morris English’s fields below 
Cammal. He would surely trap the whole lot 
of them for us next Spring. He knew what a 
wild pigeon was; he had trapped them by the 
thousands in Tioga County in the old days. 
Almost before we knew it we came in sight of 
Jackson Everhard’s home. We told our com- 
panion we’d stop a while with our old friend. 


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“ You know Jack?” lie asked ; “ it’s too bad he’s 
feeling so poorly this season; guess it’s a gen- 
eral breaking up of the system ; he’s well up in 
seventy.” Instantly the thought flashed 
through me that something had gone wrong be- 
tween him and his lost love; when I left him 
the year before, he was spry-looking, calm, hope- 
ful. We went around to the back door where 
we usually found him sitting on the steps on 
afternoons watching the blue-birds with their 
buff breasts, dodging in and out of their tiny 
home on the top of the swaying pole. The old 
man was there, but what a change was wrought. 
His eyes were faded and expressionless, his 
calmness gone, he looked dejected and sad. He 
tried to greet us with his cheery manner, as of 
old. “ The railroad’s sure to be built next 
spring, boys, Morgan himself’s back of it; 
they’ll have to buy my land to make it pay. 
You know I’ve a million dollars worth of coal 
in sight.” But there was a tremble to his 
voice, that betrayed false gaiety. It seemed 
harder for him to carry on a connected conver- 
sation. “ Take a drink of this cool water,” he 
continued; “ I just brought it from the spring 


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a few minutes ago. The wood-robins are sing- 
ing away there at a lively rate; they’re your 
favorite birds, I haven’t forgotten.” In the 
past it had been a pleasure to stop with the 
hermit — on this occasion it was a duty. Just 
before the “ golden hour,” when the air is 
purest and every leaf is rigid and clear cut in 
the cloudless atmosphere, Jackson Everhard 
and I took a stroll down to the spring. Bill 
tactfully remained at the house, to drive a 
nail out of one of his shoes, he said. When we 
reached the spring the wood-robins were silent, 
but we heard the plaintive melody of a far-off 
cow-bell. Why is it a cow-bell sounds sweet- 
est on a mountain top in the late afternoon? 
We sat down, each on a flat rock, by the gurg- 
ling ever-running pool, and for a time were 
silent. “ I suppose you see the change in me?” 
said the hermit. “ I think you look all right,” 
was my evasive reply. But as a friend I was 
interested to hear the finale of his love story. 
I was sure there must be one. “ I stood the 
winter better than I had in thirty years; I 
was full of hopes, and happy. That’s the way 
folks always feel before ‘ a bolt from the blue.’ 


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The first day of trout season an old fisherman 
stopped and asked if he might have supper 
with me. He had walked all the way over from 
Laurel Bun. I said I would be glad to ac- 
commodate him. He said he was from Straubs- 
town, five miles down the valley from my old 
home. We got to talking about old times, and 
of people who were prominent in that section 
forty years ago. While I’d never met the 
fisherman, he was twenty or more years 
younger than I, I knew his family very well. 
He asked me if I knew that Jacob Eppler was 
dead. A strange, uncanny, exultant thrill ran 
through me at these words— Jacob Eppler was 
my old sweetheart’s husband. I said it was 
news to me, I didn’t hear very often from Oak 
Valley. 4 Yes, he’s been dead over a year; the 
fisherman went on ; 4 he was a great sport and 
drinker ; what a dance he led his poor wife 
until the end. Everybody thought her health 
would improve after she buried him, but no; 
she sank right away, and died in January; the 
doctors said it was from a broken heart over 
losing him.’ My heart stood still; my old 
sweetheart dead — the planning and hoping of 


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years was naught. She had died without a 
thought of me; I was of less consequence than 
when I struck out for the wilds in 1867. I lost 
all interest in getting supper that night. I was 
so slow and my hands shook so much, that the 
fisherman thought I needed a bracer, so he gave 
me a drink from his whiskey -flask. This 
steadied me, and the meal was served, but I 
guess it was my poorest attempt. I wonder if 
it was nature, that I have been abusing so long 
in my writings, that sent that fisherman up to 
this mountain top to give me the final thrust. 
I’ve never felt like myself since that night. 
Even when I met a party of surveyors, and they 
assured me the railroad would be surely built 
into the coal fields next year, I cared nothing. 
All my coal is so much black dirt to me now. 
What do I care for being a man of affairs under 
such conditions. I’d rather die a hermit. I’ve 
burnt the manuscripts of my book on nature 
and religion. Nature is too powerful for a 
homely little man like me to fight. I’m only 
one of her discards ; I was not meant for mar- 
riage or happiness. She likes to revenge her- 
self on imperfect specimens. I’ve been here 


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forty-four years. I’ll sit on these coal beds 
until it’s all over.” I could see a tear in each 
of the hermit’s faded blue eyes. We drank our 
tinfuls of water, and wended our way silently 
back to the shanty. 


V. 


THE LONELY GRAVE 


HEN the log-train on the Mc- 
Murray’s Run Railway backed 
into the lone section-hand Tom 
Kane, and the log-loader 
mangled him beyond recog- 
nition, it was thought that his 
relatives would order his re- 
mains shipped to his old home 
at Dunnsburg for interment. But his brother, 
who hurried to the scene after the disaster, 
said the family plot was overcrowded and sug- 
gested that his burial be beside the tracks 
where he was killed. Laid out in a box of 
rough pine boards he was lowered to rest in a 
shallow trench, and an itinerant preacher, who 
worked in the camp, recited the last words. 
The accident occurred early in May, and so 
busy was the lumber operation that it would 
have been entirely forgotten after Memorial 
Day had it not been for a strange incident. Tom 
Kane had a devoted admirer, although he never 

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knew it while he was alive. Maybe when his 
spirit was released into cosmic wisdom, he un- 
derstood, but it was then too late. But this 
admirer was only a little girl of fourteen, and 
if she had ever been seen talking with him, all 
the boys at the camp would have said he was 
“ running after a child.” Ada Costikan was 
the little girl. She was the daughter of a 
shiftless woodsman, Phil Costikan, whose 
tumble-down shanty stood near the tracks, at 
a distance of about a mile from where poor 
Tom was killed. Ada was a pretty girl, with 
bright, dark-colored eyes, rosy lips and a smile 
she seemed always trying to suppress. She 
was plump and well-developed for her age. Be- 
yond her secret interest in Tom, she apparently 
cared for no other man. She never gave her 
parents any trouble, and they were proud to 
say she had not “ the makings of a flirt.” Phil 
Costikan, her father, was descended from the In- 
dian fighter of that name, one of John Brady’s 
heroes, that was the sole family tradition. 
After him had come four generations shrouded 
in ignorance and obscurity. The mother was 
Sugar Valley Dutch, stolid, amiable, and 


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naturally industrious but for her husband’s 
example. Ada saw Tom Kane nearly every 
day, but always at a distance. Whether the 
impression he made on her at a hundred yards 
was as the man really looked is doubtful — he 
was just far enough off to be invested with a 
halo of ideality. Actually speaking, Tom was 
a fine specimen of manhood, tall, stalwart, good 
natured. Until he was twenty-five he had 
worked in the bark-woods in summer and in 
the pine forests in winter, punctuating the time 
between the quitting of one job and taking up 
another with debauches of two weeks’ standing 
in Lock Haven, Emporium, or Driftwood. 
These were his sole recreations, his star of 
hope during the weary months of. toil in the 
wilderness. He had exhausted life as it ap- 
peared to him by the time he was twenty-five, 
and decided to “ settle down.” To many, mar- 
riage and home would have been the panacea, 
but he declared he was too “ case hardened” 
for that; he was too honest to try to play the 
“ reformed rake.” Drifting out to McMurray’s 
Run one spring when they were building the 
log road he joined the construction gang. The 


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boss was an old friend, so when the line was 
completed as far as was needed he was re- 
tained as section hand. When the work was 
heavy he picked up a couple of Italians to help 
him, but he was generally able to handle it 
himself. On many occasions he noticed Ada 
Costikan around her humble home, but to him 
she was a unit of humanity, a child, that was 
all. He had settled down for good. If he 
lived long enough to become too old for work 
he would become a hermit — that was his type. 
No inexperienced man ever became a hermit. 
Even the hermits of the days of faith had 
pasts ramified and horrible. Tom Kane was 
the joy of Ada’s life — at a distance. Tom’s 
work and rest at night were the only goals he 
knew. “ He must get lonely,” thought the girl ; 
“ I wish I knew him and could make things 
brighter for him.” On the warm spring even- 
ing when Phil Costikan came home and told 
his family that Tom Kane had been backed into 
and cut to pieces by the log train, Ada wept. 
It was the first time since she was a tiny girl, 
and her parents were dumbstruck by this show 
of emotion. “ He’s better off dead,” was the 


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mother’s comment, “ He was pretty much of 
a hum,” said the father, but Ada couldn’t see 
it that way, and kept on weeping. She 
wandered, half-hysterical, into the woods back 
of the shanty, and lay down against a log, 
among the skunk-cabbages, wake robins, 
anemones, and immortelles, until her grief was 
spent. “ If she takes on like that over a 
stranger, I don’t see how she’ll get through the 
world,” remarked her mother, as she noticed 
the disconsolate figure, with a drooping wake 
robin in her hand, returning homeward. “ I’ve 
a good mind to lick you for such a fool exhibi- 
tion,” she growled at her, as the girl came in 
the door. Life was a stern reality to the 
mother; tears belonged to the upper classes, 
who had no actual trouble. On Memorial Day 
Ada walked up the track with a girl friend, 
Clara Ganson, to where Tom Kane had been 
buried. Already the spring rains had almost 
flattened out the mound, which made it look 
doubly desolate. “ Too bad he has no flowers,” 
said Clara, thoughtlessly. Ada had thought 
the same thing, but it meant too much to her 
soul to mention it. u In another year, it lan 


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through her mind, “ I’ll go to work in some 
factory in Lock Haven ; I’ll save enough money 
to buy some flowers, and I’ll decorate that 
grave all right.” She always had a vague de- 
sire to go to work ; now that she had an ideal, 
it would be hard to prevent her purpose. As 
a means of passing the time, all the woodsmen 
strolled up to Tom’s grave and looked at it. 
Some of the shack-dwellers came down from the 
mountains and looked at it. More persons 
visited it that Memorial Day than viewed the 
tombs of some distinguished patriots. With 
the advent of summer the grass grew thick on 
the grave. It would have been hard to tell 
where it was were it not for a stone that one 
of the trainmen put at the head of it when he 
saw how nature was trying to hide her dead. 
On several Sundays that summer Ada visited 
the grave in company with her young friends. 
She was indifferent to most boys, but if they 
suggested a stroll on the track, she gladly 
assented. She felt it her duty to pass by Tom’s 
grave. “ It must be terribly lonely at night,” 
she often reasoned, “ but he has the whip-poor- 
wills, the crickets, the katydids, the wind in 


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the gum trees, the roar of McMurray’s Run ; 
he must have liked those sounds else he 
wouldn’t have been living in the woods.” These 
were some of the semi-morbid ideas she had 
when she cried herself to sleep. Ada’s fifteenth 
birthday took place early in December. After 
Christmas she went to Lock Haven, ostensibly 
to visit her cousin, Bessie Swope, but mainly 
with the idea of getting work in a silk mill. 
Instead of finding a position there, she secured 
a more satisfactory offer to do housework in a 
handsome brick mansion on West Church 
Street. Hired girls were hard to find, house- 
wives were willing to offer them almost any- 
thing. Many girls refused to go into service 
because they wanted their “ evenings free,” 
Ada, not having a lover, did not care whether 
her evenings were free or not. She worked 
faithfully all winter, and her employer de- 
clared she had never met with such a willing 
girl. Never once did she express a desire to go 
home on a visit, but she sent a part of her 
wages to her parents each month. These 
worthy people were far from pleased when they 
first heard she had gone to work. The ancestral 


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pride of Phil Costikan was suddenly aroused; 
he recalled his grandfather telling him that 
the old Indian fighter not only kept negro 
slaves, but white servants as well. He called 
Ada’s conduct a “ come-down.” But when the 
first postal order arrived he capitulated. Ada 
did not spend much on clothes or finery. Apart 
from what she sent home she saved considerable 
of her modest stipend. “ I will cover poor 
Tom Kane’s grave with flowers” was her con- 
stant thought. About the first of May she 
asked her employer if she might go home for 
a few days over Memorial Day. She had 
worked so conscientiously that the request was 
cheerfully granted. But Ada was not going 
home, at least not to the shanty where her 
parents resided. The day before the holiday 
she went to the florist’s on Bellefonte Avenue, 
and bought a number of cut-flowers, roses, 
carnations, jonquils, violets, and lilacs. These 
were put in a large, flat, pasteboard box, like 
dressmakers use. With the cut-flowers were 
put two scarlet flowering geranium plants, 
with the roots moistened and wrapped in 
tissue-paper. Carrying the box, which though 


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bulky was not heavy — although she would not 
have minded if it was — the girl started on foot 
for Me Mur ray’s Eun. A liveryman who was 
going after a trout fisherman met her on the 
road and carried her part way. She left the 
highway several miles below the mouth of the 
run, so as not to be observed by anyone who 
knew her, and struck boldly up the face of the 
mountain. Night was upon her before she 
reached the summit of the ridge which rose 
above the hollow where the lumber camp was 
located. There was a deer-hunter’s shack near 
an old runway, and in it she spent the night. 
When a great flare of crimson appeared over 
the eastern mountains, betokening dawn, she 
crept down the mountain side carrying her 
box of flowers. On the way she heard a 
meadow-lark singing. “Everything is beauti- 
ful, but oh, so sad,” it seemed to say. Arriv- 
ing at the lonely grave, she covered it with a 
quilt of bloom. She planted the two geraniums, 
one at the head and the other at the foot. She 
pulled up all the weeds and wild-grasses. Then 
she slipped back among the underbrush, and 
up the hill, and returned on foot to Lock 


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Haven. She was in the kitchen in time to 
wash the supper-dishes, much to the surprise 
of her employer. “ You didn’t stay away 
long,” said the lady. “I had my visit; that 
was all I wanted,” was the girl’s reply. There 
was consternation that morning among the 
train crew, the loggers, and the backwoodsmen 
when they saw the grave banked with costly 
flowers. No such mystery had been known in 
the retired valley of McMurrav’s Run, so the 
natives made the most of it. The summer cot- 
tagers from River View came and marvelled. 
Various were the conjectures, and the story 
spread in all directions. But no one guessed 
anywhere near to the right solution. It re- 
mained a mystery. Ada felt satisfied with her 
labor of love; she resolved to do the same thing 
next year. For five more years, on Memorial 
Day, the lonely grave was found buried be- 
neath flowers. Several times watchers ar- 
rived at daybreak, but she was prepared for 
these, and the last three years the decorations 
were arranged at midnight. The fame of the 
lonely grave spread all over the county. Ada 
had never seen a soul until the sixth year — 


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while thus engaged. On the night of her sixth 
visit, she was on her knees finishing the spread- 
ing of the flowers and blossoms over the mound, 
when she heard footsteps on the ties of the 
log-railway. Some one was close by her, be- 
fore she had time to hide herself. She was 
caught in the act, and resolved to stand her 
ground bravely. The stranger, who was more 
surprised to find her in this lonely spot than 
she was to be discovered, was tall and power- 
fully built. He wore a soft hat, and the canvas 
garb of a fisherman. He carried a fishing-rod 
in a canvas cover, while his wicker fish- 
basket was slung over one shoulder. “ Good 
morning,” he said, as he came to a halt be- 
side her. He lit a match and took out his 
watch. “ It’s twelve ten ; I knew I was right 
when I said ‘ good morning.’ ” By the flicker 
of the match, Ada had a good look at his face. 
She had seen the counterpart of that face be- 
fore, but at a distance. It was the face — and 
the figure— of Tom Kane. The image she had 
worshiped in the spirit all these years while 
she developed from girlhood into womanhood 
stood before her in the flesh. And the voice, 


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Indian Steps 


it had the same cheery tones as Tom’s used to 
when he would call out “ Good morning” to 
her father as he tramped along the ties. Ada 
was slow in taking up the conversation, but 
she had gotten up from her knees, and was 
smoothing her skirts. The match went out, 
and the pair stood together in the darkness. 
She was not afraid; it was as if Tom, risen 
from his grave, was with her. “ I’ve fished 
this stream for the past six years,” said the 
young man, “ ever since the first year this 
grave was decorated. I used to wonder who 
did it. No one could tell me. Little did I 
think I would find out for myself. I had ac- 
tually forgotten I was so near it, when I made 
you out in the darkness.” “ Yes, you are the 
first person to find out who decorated the grave. 
I wanted to keep it a secret to the end.” “ I’m 
very sorry,” said the fisherman. “ Was the 
man who is buried here a relative or merely a 
dear friend?” “ He was no relative; I never 
met him ; I only saw him at a distance.” Ada 
was shocked when she had said these words. 
She was telling too much, perhaps, but an un- 
controllable desire to set herself right with this 


Indian Steps 


109 


new acquaintance led her to unveil the whole 
truth. “It is certainly very good of you to 
remember this poor unfortunate. He was 
killed by being crushed by the log-train, wasn’t 
he?” “ He was cut to pieces, as you say. I 
have done this, not because I was sorry for 
him, but because I liked him.” The fisherman 
felt something like a knife-thrust in his heart. 
“ What did he look like?” he stammered, like 
a school boy lover. “ I think he looked just 
like you,” said Ada. After that the young man 
was comforted, and the couple talked together 
for over an hour. Then the man realized the 
lateness of the hour, and said she had better 
hurry home to bed and get her beauty sleep. 
“ No bed for me this night,” said the girl ; 
“ I’m going to tramp back to Lock Haven.” 
“ I)o you live there?” inquired the fisherman. 
“ I work there,” said Ada. “ I’m headed for 
town myself; may I accompany you?” The 
girl was delighted, and the long walk seemed 
as nothing. Her employer was opening the 
outside doors when she saw the girl coming 
down the street accompanied by a tall, hand- 
some man, who had all the marks of a gentle- 


110 


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man. He tipped bis hat to her when they 
parted at the gate, and she ran around to the 
side door with a lightness of step that seemed 
unnatural to her. “ That’s a good-looking 
young man you had with you, Ada; who is he?” 
queried the lady, whose curiosity had brought 
her into the kitchen. “ He’s a railroader; he’s 
one of the Despat chers on the Pennsy.” The 
lady said no more; she was surprised to think 
of her hired girl moving in such good company. 
And she kept wondering where they were com- 
ing from at such an early hour. Towards even- 
ing she could stand it no longer. “ Where 
were you coming from with the young man?” 
“ We walked to town together from McMur- 
ray’s Eun.” The answer was so spontaneous 
that the lady had to be satisfied. In a few 
days Ada began receiving letters postmarked 
Sunbury. The lady eyed them critically be- 
fore she handed them to the girl. She never 
recollected her getting letters in men’s hand- 
writing in all the six years she had been with 
her; this affair with the Despatcher must be 
something new. One night she heard that the 
girl was seen at the station, meeting a young 


Indian Steps 


111 


man who came up on number one. Another 
night she went driving with a man. And so 
events shaped themselves until one day Ada 
told her employer that she was going home. 
Asked if she meant to get married, she replied 
that she “ couldn’t tell just yet.” After she 
had been gone a month the lady read in the list 
of marriage licenses granted at the local court- 
house the names of “ Thomas McNary, Sun- 
bury, aged 32 years, and Ada Costikan, 
McMurray’s Eun, aged 21 years. Inquiry 
showed that her former hired girl was marry- 
ing a Pennsylvania Kailroad official. The next 
Memorial Day dawned on the lonely grave on 
McMurray’s Eun and it was undecorated. The 
train crew, and the loggers and the shack- 
dwellers repined. The chief glamor, the only 
mystery of the sequestered valley had departed. 
The grave was never again decorated. Ada’s 
faith had been rewarded by finding her ideal 
in the flesh. And surely the calm spirit of the 
mutilated section - hand could not have be- 
grudged the happiness that was hers. 


VL 


THE JOCKEY’S SISTER 

OW Moroni, est while champion of 
the Chicago suburban tracks, 
landed on the Pennsylvania 
County Fair circuit might seem 
considerable of a mystery. Per- 
haps it was because racing was 
legislated out of existence in the 
neighborhood of the windy city, 
but most probably a chronic case of change of 
owners had drifted the old horse into the hill 
country. In Chicago they used to say that 
Moroni originated the term “ one best bet,” for 
whenever he ran he was sure to get a place. 
Wiseacres who took friends or country rela 
tives to the races for the first time endeavored 
to do so on days Moroni ran, so they could 
pilot the neophytes to play the old reliable 
and bring home some “ easy money.” On days 
when the tracks were deep with mud, and fields 
were marred by " scratching,” Moroni was sure 

to start* and it was said he could swim faster 
112 



Indian Steps 


113 


than he could run. His name being the same 
as the angel of Mormon fame was hinted to be 
the reason why so many missionaries of the 
Latter Day Saints were in evidence along the 
rail at Hawthorne, Iioby and Harlem. With 
such eclat, one would expect to see a handsome 
horse, or a big horse; but Moroni was neither. 
He looked more like an undersized trotting 
stallion than a runner, especially as he carried 
a long tail at a time when all the other racers 
wore theirs banged. In color he was a faded-out 
bay, with a vague white spot on his broad fore- 
head. He had bad hocks, and when he started 
three times in a week his ribs showed plainly. 
But lie always got a place, so his friends were 
legion. It was Ammon Holtzclaw that owned 
him when he was unloaded from a box-car at 
Straubstown the night before the fair opened. 
Peering out into the darkness as he held his 
lantern aloft, the young owner’s eyes rested 
on the expansive and sympathetic features of 
William Green, a bow-legged colored boy of 
indeterminate age. The negro took the hint 
quickly, and started to help “ unload” regard- 
less of first striking a bargain. When Moroni 


114 


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and several trotters that shipped with him 
were safely on terra firma, Holtzclaw beckoned 
the colored lad to come with him to the end 
of the car, where he held up the lantern and 
showed him a name written almost illegibly 
on the wall. It read : “ Eleanor Wittgenstein, 
Straubstown, Pa.” The darky rubbed his head, 
as Holtzclaw spelled it out for him. “ Do you 
know of any such girl here?” he said, impati- 
ently. “ I sure do,” replied the darky, “ and 
say, she’s all right.” Holtzclaw smiled visibly ; 
he had decided to ship to Straubstown at the 
last minute just because he had seen that name 
written in the car. He had been helping his 
friend Levi Kessler load his harness horses, 
when he saw it, and now he felt his move was 
worth the effort. Moroni had been a failure 
in his hands; he was going to take him back 
to the farm in Centre County and turn him out, 
but he would have to run one more race to help 
him meet the girl who wrote her name in the 
box-car. “ Her brother’s de leadin’ jockey in 
town,” continued William Green. “ Why, 
she’s great on horses herself; dev jest caint 
keep her away from de stables; she out dere 


Indian Steps 


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ebery mornin’.” Ammon Holtzclaw locked 
Moroni in his box and went to the Mansion 
House for the night so as to be able to look 
“ spick and span” next morning. Usually he 
slept in the box adjoining his horse, but in 
those days there was no one with the magical 
name of Eleanor Wittgenstein to cause him to 
brighten up. Ammon had never been senti- 
mental, but his continued ill success in his 
racing ventures, coupled with the fact that he 
could interest himself in nothing else, made 
him long for a change of some kind in his 
career. His father, a prosperous farmer, had 
offered him many inducements to prepare for 
State College or go into business, but he 
spurned the chances when he thought of the 
allurements of the track. And yet he wasn’t 
happy racing; it was an ignoble existence, and 
was merely a false mode of expression for his 
vagabond nature. It migh! have come out in 
making him an artist or a strolling poet. The 
name in the box-car was an open sesame to 
something new, yet something still more in 
harmony with his inclinations. The next 
morning at daybreak he was at the Fair 


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Grounds, while his exercise boy, Leo Quailey, 
breezed Moroni. The old horse did not seem 
stiff after his twelve-hour ride in the car, and 
bounded along with his head held low, and legs 
moving as precise as clockwork, as was his 
wont. After he had been cooled off and put in 
the stall, Ammon sat outside on a bench, gaz- 
ing abstractedly at the clumps of trees, the 
rolling country, and distant ranges of blue 
mountains which rose above the row of frame 
houses and sheds beyond the infield. The 
summer was not too far spent for the birds 
to have lost their zest for song, and there was 
occasional chirping in the tall maples behind 
the sheds. The sky was blue, save for some 
round steel-colored clouds. Ammon could not 
put himself in accord with his surroundings. 
He lacked the sentiment to do so, but his 
nature was too well developed to accept it with 
dull animal resignation. He must have sat 
there a long while, for he began to feel pretty 
hungry. He considered for a minute before 
deciding to forego breakfast. If he went to 
the hotel for an hour, Eleanor might come to 
the track and be gone before he returned; to 


Indian Steps 


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surely meet her he must wait. It was a wise 
decision, as it was not long before a number of 
visitors appeared in the neighborhood of the 
stables. Although the boxes were tightly 
closed, the country curiosity-seekers had hopes 
of getting a look at the horses before the racing 
began. Some few were acquainted with owners 
or trainers, and these were accommodated, as 
the parties in authority were found easily, all 
huddled together gossiping in the stalls, 
curiously avoiding the bright sunshine. Pretty 
soon Leo Quailey approached, accompanied by 
several other boys. Leo introduced them to 
Ammon, one by one, as if he were some great 
personage. This made little impression until 
he mentioned the name “Adam Wittgentsein.” 
“ I’ve heard of you,” said Ammon with quick 
interest, “ you’re quite a rider, they say.” 
“ Well, I do ride some,” replied the boy, “ I 
won a good race down to Point Breeze with 
Pennlyn on Decoration Day, but I do most of 
my riding around home.” “ Have you got a 
mount for this afternoon?” queried Ammon. 
“No, I haven’t; that’s why I wanted to meet you 
most. I heard you’ve got a pretty likely 


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runner.” I don't know about tliat ? but he’ll 
try his best.” An arrangement was made, and 
Adam Wittgenstein seated himself beside 
Ammon, and felt a part of the establishment. 
Leo, though too heavy to ride in races, had a 
good deal of esprit de corps, and brought out 
the racing colors, grass green and white, to 
show to the newly-engaged jockey. This 
brought several idlers to the scene, eager to 
look at anything bright or showy. It was dur- 
ing the exhibition of the colors that Ammon 
noticed a young girl approaching the stables, 
wading as best she could through the tall grass 
in her tight skirt. She wore a big black hat 
with white ostrich plumes, which hid her face 
until she was very near. Then she looked up, 
and her dark eyes met his. She was very 
pretty, very unlike Adam Wittgenstein, but 
who else could she be but his sister? Adam 
made no attempt to introduce her, though she 
linked her arm in his, which caused Ammon to 
think for a minute it wasn't the jockey’s sister 
at all, but his sweetheart. But a second glance 
showed that, though much darker in coloring 
and with more regularity of features, there 


Indian Steps 


119 


was a certain fullness of the lips and length 
of nose which revealed consanguinity. Ammon 
looked at her so hard and then at Adam 
that the lad realized something was left 
undone, so he said, “ Eleanor, this is Mr. 
Holtzclaw, the owner of the horse I’m to 
ride.” That was enough ; Eleanor and 
Ammon were now friends. Among persons 
naturally congenial, or as the sentimental- 
minded would say, “ intended for one another,” 
preliminary acquaintance is unnecessary. It 
is so much so one would almost imagine that 
all that had happened in previous existences, 
or states of mind. We know our ideal so well, 
that we do not have to find out about her after 
meeting her. Ammon’s abstracted, discon- 
tented manner vanished in an instant. He 
was geniality, thoughtfulness, politeness itself. 
Tipping his hat, he begged permission to show 
off old Moroni to his new acquaintance. He 
had Leo unblanket the horse, and lead him 
out into the sunlight, where he could be seen 
to advantage. The old campaigner, while lack- 
ing a good deal in inches to make him what 
horsemen call a “ picture horse,” had to a 


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marked degree that kindly and intelligent ex- 
pression so noticeable in entire horses, made 
up to Eleanor as quickly as his owner. She 
stroked his mouse-colored nose, and over his 
eyes, and he tried to lay his head on her shoul- 
der. “ He surely will win this afternoon,” she 
said, as she smiled into Ammon’s honest blue 
eyes. “ I know he would if you had anything 
to say about it. I thank you very much for 
your kind words. I appreciate them.” The 
girl’s sincere manner and gentle voice meant 
everything to the young horseman. Lack of 
sympathy in his family and continued ill-luck 
made him hunger for appreciation of a kind 
he never expected to receive. A kind word for 
his horse, hopes that he might win the race, 
these were expressions, if received before, might 
have given him a courage that would have re- 
sulted in greater success in his undertakings. 
“ I think your brother will ride a good race ; 
that’s the best any one can do.” “ I’m sure 
he will. He’ll ride the best race of his life 
to-day,” replied Eleanor, enthusiastically. 
When lunch-time arrived Ammon and Eleanor 
were so mutually interested in the preparations 


Indian Steps 


121 


given Moroni for the race that they were loath 
to spare the time necessary to visit the refresh- 
ment tent on the far side of the grand stand. 
William Green, the colored boy who had told 
Ammon about Eleanor Wittgenstein the night 
before, happened on the scene at the opportune 
moment. He looked so happy when he saw the 
young couple together, that Amnion gave him a 
dollar bill to go and get them some sandwiches, 
pop-corn, and sarsaparilla, and said he might 
keep the change. Lunch was served on a trunk 
in an empty box adjoining Moroni’s stall, being 
enjoyed more than an elaborate repast at the 
Bellevue-Stratford. The colored boy seemed to 
take a paternal interest in the pair, and was 
assiduous in his attentions. Moroni was a 
quiet horse, and while they ate did not thrash 
about with his heels as do mettlesome racers 
before a contest. The repast was so enjoyable 
that Ammon and Eleanor did not notice that 
the sun had become obscured, and the oppres- 
sive atmosphere betokened showers. When 
they came out, the first heat of the harness 
races had already begun. Five horses were 
shooting around the turn in a cloud of dust. 


122 


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During the next heat thunder and lightning 
were apparent, and soon a heavy rainfall en- 
sued. Ammon and Eleanor, who had gone no 
further than the rail to witness the races, 
sought refuge in the box-stall. Eleanon sat 
on the trunk, while Ammon occupied a camp 
stool before her. The rain was short-lived, 
but the young couple enjoyed being together 
too much to venture forth to see the sport. 
Besides the secretary had appeared and told 
them that the first heat of the running race 
would not be run until after the last heat of the 
two harness events. That meant that Moroni 
would not appear under silks until at least five 
o’clock. Ordinarily Ammon would have be- 
come angry, and demanded that the first heat 
be run earlier, but on this occasion he smiled 
and said nothing. The harness races waxed 
as fast and furious as harness races can, and 
Ammon and Eleanor were left to their own 
devices in the cozy box-stall. It did not take 
them long to discover they were lovers, or to 
confess that with both it had been a case of 
love at first glimpse. Ammon had told her 
how he had seen her name written on the wall 


Indian Steps 


123 


inside the freight car the morning before, while 
helping Levi Kessler load his harness horses, 
lie liked the sound of the name; it had in- 
duced him to ship Moroni in the same car, be- 
cause the destination Straubstown was the 
address written below the name. Eleanor 
told how one Sunday afternoon a month pre- 
viously, in company with several other girls, 
she had seen the empty box-car lying on the 
siding by the freight house. In a spirit of 
fun they went in it, and one of the girls dared 
the others to write their names on the wall. 
None of them cared to do it except Eleanor, 
and she had repented that night and deter- 
mined to erase it next morning. She was at 
the station before six-thirty, but the freight 
car had gone. Now she was glad she had not 
erased it. She was unhappy at home; had 
disliked working in the pants factory, had 
quit, to her mother’s disgust, and was hoping 
for a new life. In the midst of these pleasant 
self-revelations, William Green, who had been 
apparently acting as guardian of the portal all 
afternoon, came in to say that it was half-past 
four, and time to saddle Moroni for the first 


124 


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heat of the running race. Reluctantly Amnion 
arose from the camp-stool, and Eleanor fol- 
lowed him. “ Who is that colored boy, any 
way ?” Ammon whispered to her. “ He seems 
powerfully interested in our welfare.” “ His 
father, old Mose Green, is porter at the hotel, 
and lives next door to us; the whole family 
have a sort of interest in us; I think he likes 
to see us together.” Ammon, Leo and Will- 
iam, as well as Adam, who had been wearing 
the gay jockey suit all afternoon, attended to 
the saddling of Moroni, and when the bugle blew 
he was the first at the post. Adam made a 
good appearance, riding with an English seat, 
and horse and rider w r ere favorably commented 
upon as they paraded by the stand. There 
were eight starters, an unusual number, but 
they were a cheap-looking lot. Of course, there 
was a favored horse, which Ammon learned 
afterwards was owned by the starter’s broth- 
er. He was such a painful apology for a racer 
that his presence was scarcely heeded. The 
starter, however, seemed determined to give 
his favorite the best of the start. It was sick- 
ening to watch liis futile efforts to make the 


Indian Steps 


125 


wretched beast break in front. The creature 
was inert, and his jockey, a big blonde farmer 
boy, dug him with his spurs, jerked his mouth, 
and beat him unmercifully to get him to run. 
Every time the starter dropped his flag Moroni 
was in the van, with the rest barely moving. 
The man with the advance flag always sent 
them back, until the crowd became impatient 
at the delay. The noise on the stand became 
so loud that at one of the breaks where Moroni 
was standing with his head towards the stables, 
both starters let their flags fall, calling it a 
“ go.” Adam Wittgenstein, well and favorably 
known in Straubstown, had many friends in 
the crowd, and they howled vociferously when 
they saw the way in which he was treated. But 
Adam needed no sympathy. He quickly turned 
Moroni; plying his Avhip vigorously, he urged 
the old thoroughbred on in pursuit of the field. 
He “ collared them” at the first turn, which 
made the crowd yell with delight. He raced 
them to a standstill along the back-stretch, 
until each of his seven competitors quit like 
dogs. Around the last turn Moroni was com- 
ing at a common canter, with the rest, like in 


126 


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Eclipse’s day, “ nowhere.” There was genuine 
enthusiasm in the crowd; it was good to see 
the local boy in front. When he finished an 
easy winner, a swarm of friends climbed over 
the fences and poured through the gates sur- 
rounding him when he rode back to the judges’ 
stand to ask permission to dismount. But he 
was to be robbed of his victory. The starter 
and his assistant, who had been engaged in a 
whispered consultation after the finish, hurried 
into the judges’ box and assured the officials 
that they had made a grave mistake in ringing 
the bell, as the advance flag had never been 
dropped. The judges at first insisted that they 
could believe their eyes, but the starter, who 
was also the son of the heaviest stockholder 
in the Fair Association, wanted to know who 
was running things, so they lapsed into docile 
silence, fearing to lose their jobs. Ammon and 
Eleanor, who had been watching the race from 
the last row of seats in the stand, and were 
naturally in a happy frame of mind over the 
victory, began wondering why the result was 
not announced. Jockeys and horses were still 
on the track waiting for the announcement; 


Indian Steps 


127 


something must be wrong. Finally the an- 
nouncer raised his megaphone to his lips and 
called out that that race was “ no heat,” owing 
to the horses starting before the advance flag 
had been dropped. Fifteen minutes rest was 
to be given the horses. “ Never mind,” said 
Ammon, “ we’ll clean them up next time,” so 
Eleanor and he began munching peanuts until 
the race began. Tt seemed more than fifteen 
minutes before the heat was called. It was 
just long enough to give the rain another 
chance. That was what the clique in charge 
of the program wanted, so they were quick to 
call the races off for the day. When the an- 
nouncer made this discouraging statement a 
look of inexpressable sadness came into Am- 
mon Holtzclaw’s face. “ What makes you look 
so sad?” inquired Eleanor, with a woman’s in- 
tuition. “ I’m sad because everything I try 
remains unfinished. I can’t seem to round up 
anything.” “ Oh, yes you can,” said the girl ; 
“ what’s this one race in a lifetime? You’ll 
surely win out in everything else you try.” 
The crowd was rapidly leaving the stand, but 
the young man made no move to go nor speak. 


128 


Indian Steps 


Eleanor sat by him patiently. At length he 
broke the silence. “ You say I can do every- 
thing else, even if 1 wasn’t allowed to win that 
heat?” “ That’s just what I said,” answered 
the girl. “ There’s a train leaving here at 
eight-fifty to-night for Lewistown that con- 
nects with the West. I’ve wanted to go into 
the Shades of Night country in Indiana for over 
a year to take charge of a little farm I in- 
herited from an uncle. They say it’s a lovely 
little place. Will you come with me? I know 
everything will turn out right with me if you 
do. But if you come along we’ll never come 
back. It will be a new life for both of us. We 
will have time enough in Pittsburg to-morrow 
to be married. I’ll have my friend Kessler 
see that my horse is started to-morrow, and 
then have him ship the outfit out to the farm 
in charge of Leo Quailev. It’s now six- 
thirty,” he continued, looking at his watch, 
“ what do you say?” “I said you’d surely 
win out in everything. Why shouldn’t I go 
with you?” Ammon put his arm around her 
and kissed her, as they sat there on the top row 
of seats in the deserted grandstand. Then he 



A GROUP OF BARK-PEELERS 





Indian Steps 


129 


remarked calmly, “ Let’s find a little supper, 
and tell friend Kessler what to do to morrow. 
Then we’ll have just about enough time left to 
stroll over to the station to board the eight- 


VII. 


THE DESPATCH EIDER 

HE little 'Red Hornet’ was pretty 
badly fagged. There seemed 
little use in going ahead with 
him unless I wanted him to drop 
under me. The sun was com- 
ing up frightfully hot, making 
the air oppressive with the scent 
of the sweet ferns. Ahead of 
me the pale green ridges exuded humidity, 
save where clumps of yellow pines looked cool 
and green like the palms of an oasis. But 
there was no time to stop, the hoof beats of my 
pursuers’ horses could be heard in moments 
of especial calmness. We were in the bottom 
of a deep ravine, where a small stream flowed, 
when } felt the gallant little pony’s forelegs 
giving way. Quick as a flash T swung out of 
the saddle and stood beside him. All his 
superfluous flesh had been worn away in the 
wild race, and froth and foam ran from his 
flanks and belly like rivulets. Poor little fel- 
130 



V 


Indian Steps 


131 


low, he gazed at me appealingly with his blood- 
shot, prominent eyes, as with legs spread apart 
to support his weight, he rested, and coughed, 
and panted. Just then I fancied I heard the 
swish of horses running through the ferns. I 
had to decide quickly. I cut the saddle-girths 
and bridle so that they could not be used again, 
tossed them behind a tall fire-blackened stump, 
gave the pony a slap to set him going some- 
where, and started running myself down the 
ravine, with my left hand held over the pocket 
containing the precious despatches. I hadn’t 
eaten since three o’clock the afternoon before, 
so I had to stop and drink out of a puddle in 
the stream. But I kept up a steady gait, and 
soon had put a mile between me and the aban- 
doned pony. I began fancying that I was in 
too great a hurry until the sound of hoof -beats 
again echoed in my ears. It was no illusion; 
it was plainer than ever. My pursuers must 
now be at the top of the ravine where I had cut 
loose from the pony. 1 redoubled my efforts, 
but was careful to make as little noise as 
possible. Once I scared up a kingfisher from 
a pool of dead water, and my heart sank lest 


132 


Indian Steps 


his “ rattle” as he rose high in the air would 
give a clue to my whereabouts. As the bird’s 
chattering died away I was sure I heard the 
splash and pounding of horses’ hoofs back 
along the bed of the stream. Where I was the 
creek made a sudden drop, forming a waterfall 
that sent a jet or flume across some decaying 
logs and downward a dozen feet. Below that 
the hollow widened out, but just enough to 
make room for a log cabin and a little garden, 
which seemed to be mothered by the encircling 
hills and a great, white-armed buttonwood 
tree. The front door, made of boards and 
painted light blue, was shut. I supposed the 
house was empty. I pushed into it, thinking 
I would race out the back door, and that would 
throw my pursuers off the track for a few 
minutes, as if they saw me entering they 
would stop to search the shack. Instead of 
the house being empty I found a good-looking 
young woman of about twenty, dressed in a 
black and white checked frock, seated in an 
armchair sewing complacently. Though I 
wore no military costume, there was some- 
thing about my wild eyes, long hair, and hag- 


Indian Steps 


133 


gard face that connected me with the army. 
Though she was not stout, there was a certain 
development or fullness of line in her that made 
me feel that I had happened upon somebody’s 
wife. We looked at each other, and the feel- 
ing that each produced was that the other was 
not unattractive. Her eyes were dark brown, 
her hair brownish, tinted with gold. She ap- 
peared to be sensible and quick-witted. On 
seeing her my plans changed; I wanted to re- 
main where I was, and told her so. ‘ The 
Johnny Rebs have been after me since six 
o’clock last night; I wasn’t a mile and a half 
ahead of them when I had to cut loose from 
my horse. It’s only a question of a half hour 
until they get me, unless you can hide me here.’ 
< My husband’s a soldier in the Confederate 
army, and a Virginian by birth, but I’m a 
Pennsylvanian and we’re on Pennsylvania soil, 
so I guess it’s the least I can do to give you a 
chance.’ She led me to the back door and out 
to where cellar steps seemed to burrow under 
the cabin and into the side hill. We were 
both calm, but acted quickly. In the capacious 
cellar, which was larger than the floor-space of 


134 


Indian Steps 


the house, was a running spring, all except the 
mouth of which was overlaid with slabs. On 
the top of these was piled considerable fire- 
wood. At the opening of this covered rivulet, 
deep in the water, were numerous crocks and 
bottles, and I slipped into the water, and lay 
with my nose out like a carp in the gloomy 
recess. The crocks and bottles were replaced, 
a few sticks of wood were thrown carelessly 
across the aperture. It w r as chilling cold, and 
my teeth shook, but I worried more lest the 
water seep through my leather wallet and de- 
stroy the valuable papers, than I did about my 
contact with the spring water. It seemed I 
was in my watery retreat so long that I began 
wondering whether after all I was being pur- 
sued, or had thrown my enemies into dismay 
somewhere further back. All was silent up- 
stairs; at times I imagined I could hear the 
ticking of a clock. Once I heard a rooster 
crowing. Everything was still, and the looked- 
for incidents not occurring, I began thinking 
about myself, how cold I was, how hungry I 
felt. I was tormented by these ideas to such 
an extent that I was thankful when the excite- 


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ment began. First of all I heard the racket 
of the horses’ approach, then the voices of the 
riders. I listened to hear the young woman’s 
voice, but could not detect it. Somehow I had 
a perfect trust in her, even though she was the 
wife of a Johnny Reb. We hadn’t spoken 
much ; I knew nothing of her past character, 
but there are some women we instinctively be- 
lieve in, and she was one. Just when my faith 
was truest, I heard the cellar-doors open, and 
the tramp of heavy, booted, spurred feet on the 
loosely-laid plank stairs. My three pursuers 
were in the cellar, and were apparently looking 
around. Then I could make out a woman’s 
voice whispering with one of the men, and then 
they all went up the stairs. Some one shut the 
doors with a bang. I had forgotten I was 
cold or hungry; my trust in my fair young 
protector had put into my life a new force 
which dulled the physical sensations. I be- 
came oblivious to time; I kept thinking of the 
young woman upstairs calmly sewing, the 
sculptured contour of her face, her dark eyes 
and brown-gold hair, her black and white 
checked gingham dress. It was late at night 


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I calculated when I heard the cellar doors open 
softly, and the trip of gentle steps upon the 
stairs. She got down on her knees before the 
hidden rivulet, and called to me to come out 
‘ if I was alive.’ 4 Alive ? I surely am alive, 
and never felt better in my life. You have 
performed a miracle and saved my life.’ She 
had no light with her, but to me she was so 
beautiful and so good that I saw her plainly in 
the darkness of the cellar. It was dark in the 
room upstairs, save for the red glow from the 
stove. ‘ I am afraid to light a tallow dip,’ she 
said. ‘ While I’m sure they’ve gone, they might 
see a light in my window even from a great 
distance.’ On a chair were some dry clothes; 
I could go upstairs and change them if I 
wished. This I did quickly, and when I re- 
turned down the ladder, a warm supper had 
been laid out on the table. The glow from the 
stove was light enough, and never did I enjoy 
a meal as much. As I ate she told me what a 
close call I had, and it is only as the years pass 
that 1 realize how near I was to death. My 
three pursuers had arrived, angry and tired, 
vowing vengeance. They had found the rider- 


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less horse, and knew I must he close by. To 
her surprise she found one was her husband, a 
corporal, whom she imagined was far away in 
Northern Virginia. She said that if she had 
known he was one of the party she would never 
have secreted me; but on this point I am in- 
credulous. But the fact that her husband was 
in the party saved my life. Evidently he felt 
the same faith in her that I had, for when she 
told him she had not seen me, and that I was 
nowhere on the premises, he believed her, and 
only came into the cellar in a perfuntory man- 
ner to satisfy his comrades. They had waited 
long enough to have tea served, to feed their 
horses sparingly, and made olf in different di- 
rections, promising to capture me by sundown. 
But the sun set defiant and red, dusk softened 
into night, and she knew that they had not 
found a trace of me. When the meditative old 
clock struck twelve; she felt there was little 
danger of their return that night, so she had 
come down and invited me out. ‘ I am afraid 
I have committed a grave sin to have deceived 
my husband, but after hiding you away, I could 
not bring myself to deliver you up and maybe 


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have you butchered like a dog. I will never be 
happy again for my vile act, but I am thankful 
I have not the betrayal of two on my soul.’ 
When she finished talking I took out my wallet 
to examine the integrity of my papers. The 
outer covering was water soaked but the price- 
less dispatches entrusted me by Colonel Huide- 
koper were as clean and strong as when they 
were delivered to me. In the case I found a 
small photograph of myself in uniform taken 
the day before I left Harrisburg for my regi- 
ment. I had intended sending it to a sweet- 
heart back in Hopple Hollow, but had never 
gotten the chance. I reached to the window 
sill, where by the stove-light I detected a pen 
and ink. On the back of the picture I wrote 
my name and address, “ Edwin Garth, Hopple 
Hollow, Pa.” Below I put the date, “ June 28, 
1863.” I handed it to my deliverer, who looked 
around for a place to hide it, finally secreting 
it under the sill of the window frame. Out- 
side the windows the landscape became sea- 
gray, daylight was crowding into the tents of 
night. ‘ I must be going, thank you ever from 
my heart ; write to me some time’ ; I said, as I 


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clasped her warm hand. I shut the blue door 
softly, and retreated up the hollow, in the di- 
rection I had come when I abandoned the horse. 
I marvelled at the stupidity of the Rebels; 
several places I saw my footprints in the muck 
by the stream. It was light when I reached the 
tall blackened pine stump where I had hidden 
the saddle. T found it untouched, but could 
locate the pony nowhere. I knew it would be 
safer to strike for my destination on foot; a 
horseman is always noticeable, but I hated to 
lose the Red Hornet, as I had captured the 
little stallion from a Rebel cavalryman in one 
of our raids into Northern Virginia. But my 
disappointment over the missing pony was only 
the outward expression of my grief about part- 
ing from the young woman who had saved my 
life. But she had given me something more to 
live for, an added reason to serve my country 
well. I was just as brave but not as reckless 
in the hours which followed. I travelled fast 
across the ridges, and I knew not such a thing 
as hunger or fatigue. Just as the sun was 
setting calm and golden I was halted by the 
sentry at Colonel Wister’s camp. In another 


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five minutes he had my despatches, warmly 
commending me for safely getting through such 
a perilous country. I had many other ex- 
periences and hair-breadth escapes while the 
war lasted, but they all sunk into common- 
place after they were over. The adventure of 
the log cabin and my fair deliverer was the 
one living issue of my life. When I was 
mustered out, highly commended for my con- 
duct on a dozen occasions, and set out for the 
pine-buried depths of Hopple Hollow, I had 
another reason to cause me to travel fast, apart 
from the desire to be reunited with my family. 
It was the hope of finding a letter from my 
deliverer. I always thought of her by that 
name; 1 never mentioned or thought of her 
by any other. My meeting with the family was 
a happy one; they were proud of my record, 
but I think I cut the greetings short a trifle 
when I asked that time-worn question/ Is there 
any mail for me?’ i Yes, quite a few letters 
and papers,’ replied my white-haired father, 
as he brought forth the bundle tied with pink 
string from the drawer of the old walnut writ- 
ing desk. I went through the packet carefully ; 


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there were letters from friends, relatives, and 
old-time sweethearts. Every handwriting was 
familiar, but no word from ‘ my deliverer.’ I 
fear I looked a little sad when I laid the letters 
down, and one of my sisters said, ‘ Ed, I’ll 
wager you’ve got a girl down South.’ But my 
disappointment, though lengthened out, was 
not destined to he final. In April, 1867, after 
a winter spent working in the woods, I came 
home, and at the close of the usual greetings 
asked for my mail. My sister smiled broadly 
as she hurried to the writing-desk. “ There’s 
only one letter, and something tells me it is the 
one I am sure you want.’ I don’t know why 
she said this, but sisters are often intuitive. I 
opened it, and my face assumed a serious mien. 
I know it did, for my mother called to me and 
said I ought to look at myself in the glass. It 
was dated March 1, the same year. ‘ My dear 
friend,” it ran, “ I now feel impelled to take 
my pen in hand. I have wanted to do so ever 
since the war was ended. My husband never 
returned, and his regiment counted him a de- 
serter after 1863. He never wrote to me after 
he went away that night I hid you in the 


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spring house in our cellar. I sometimes 
thought you met and killed him, but that 
cannot be. I wanted to be honorable to 
him until I felt there was no chance of 
his coming back. I am sure of it now, 
and take pleasure in pening these lines. 
Write to me soon, and come to see me if ever 
in this part of the country. I often look at 
your photograph. The date you wrote on the 
back, ‘ July 28, 1863; changed the whole mean- 
ing of my life. Rut I must close. Answer 
soon to one you called ‘ your deliverer V Did 
I go to see her in the South Mountains and 
make her my wife? That would have been a 
happy ending to the romance, and would have 
sounded well in your next volume of “ Moun- 
tain Tales.’ I did not. When I read that 
letter a blind, burning instinct, such as com- 
pels us to run before it like a forest fire, told 
me in letters of pain that the rebel corporal 
was still alive; that he knew when he came to 
the house that his wife had hidden me in the 
cellar, but with the chivalry of a true Vir- 
ginian would not brand her as false, nor make 
himself the laughing stock of his comrades. 


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Yes, sir, she did write me again, but by that 
time I was married happily to my old-time 
sweetheart in Hopple Hollow.” 


VIII. 


BLACK MOSHANNON 

OME few years before the middle 
of the last century there were 
three substantial log-houses on 
the “ grass flats” of Black 
Moshannon. The stream is 
wide, and there is considerable 
“ dead water” at this point. But 
for its limited acreage this 
would have made an admirable farming and 
dairying country. Unfortunately there was 
not more than three hundred acres suitable for 
clearing, and these were taken up by three 
families. These three families were as dis- 
similar as can possibly be conceived. On the 
farm furthest down the stream lived the Mc- 
Caleb family, fresh from the north of Ireland ; 
their old home had been in Donegal. At the 
next farm lived the Bower family, staid Penn- 
sylvania-Germans from Berks County. At the 
“ upper” farm resided a young couple named 

de Trzebon, lately arrived from Bohemia. Be- 

144 


OK 



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145 


yond these three farms was the dense, unbroken 
forests, where the wolves and panthers held 
full sway, and not even a hunter’s shanty was 
to be met for miles. Old Alexander McCaleb 
was the only one of the three settlers who 
might be called prosperous. He combined 
rafting with farming, and also worked up quite 
a respectable fur business. His entire family 
were so busy that they did not mind the lone- 
liness of their habitation. They were a less 
sociable family than the Bowers, but the 
Bohemian couple, the de Trzebons, were the 
strangest and most aloof of all. They spoke 
English much better than did the Bowers, were 
hospitable, so that pride was not the cause of 
their reserve. According to old McCaleb, they 
had a past. This mattered little to the Bow- 
ers, as they accepted people at their “ face 
value.” But to the McCalebs, with the strong 
Presbyterian tendencies which they carried 
into the wilderness, any divergence from the 
straight and narrow path deserved ostracism. 
Besides, Elsa de Trzebon had powers of second 
sight. She could foretell disasters, unsuccess- 
ful hunts, or love affairs, and rafts that would 


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be wrecked. She knew what people were doing 
at every hour of the day and night, even if they 
were hundreds of miles away. Her husband, 
Alois de Trzebon, was an expert rifle shot, and 
that made him the few friends he possessed. 
These were wandering hunters whose hunting 
shanties had antedated the. three log farm- 
houses on the “ grass flats.” They came back 
regularly and slept in the settlers’ barns, and 
furnished a link with the outside world. Every 
season a panther would feel too much at home 
on the flats, and a hunting party would be 
organized to lay him low. Alois de Trzebon 
was even more adept at slaying these monsters 
than the native shots, and the party would in- 
variably wind up by presenting the carcass to 
McCaleb. This was the one annual act of 
social intercourse. The old Irishman would 
stuff it with leaves and set it up on his raft, 
and attract much attention all the way from 
Kartliaus to Marietta. His pleasure at having 
a stuffed panther on his rafts was the one hu- 
man thing about him. Apart from this he 
was moody, brusque, severe. Michael Bower 
was a jolly" old fellow; he didn’t care much for 


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hunting, but if his farm paid, he was supremely 
happy. He had a wife and nine children, just 
one more child than had his neighbor McCaleb. 
The de Trzebons had none at all. Childless 
couples were rare in the mountains ; they were 
always supposed to have pasts. Bower’s eldest 
child was a daughter, Arminta; McCaleb’s was 
a son, Nicholas. Arminta was blonde and 
pretty, quite unusual in coloring for a Penn- 
sylvania-German girl. Nicholas McCaleb was 
tall and slight, with “ Irish brown” hair, which 

is neither red nor ash. He was an agreeable 

/ 

young fellow. Though he had missed being 
born in Pennsylvania by three years, he was 
entirely like an American, and utterly unlike 
a Calvinistic Irishman. He was fond of raft- 
ing, and looked upon farming as a mere neces- 
sity. But hunting was his chief pleasure, one 
which he had not much time to indulge. His 
stern father kept him at his tasks continually, 
and had he not been such a happy-go-lucky, 
genial soul, he would have rebelled. He took 
a decided liking for Arminta Bower, which 
was fully reciprocated. Old McCaleb said he 
disapproved of “ mixed marriages.” “ You 


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can go with that Dutch girl if you want, but 
when you marry, it must be one of our own 
stock.” Nicholas was shrewd enough never 
to answer his parent on this question. When 
it was possible to slip away from home the 
young woodsman was invariably with Arminta. 
Their favorite walk was along the path by the 
creek to the de Trzebon home. They liked to 
meet the wandering hunters who visited there, 
and Nicholas often tested his markmanship 
with them. Next to Alois de Trzebon he was the 
best shot of all. Sometimes he would match 
his skill with hunters from Buffalo or Phila- 
delphia, and often with Indians from the reser- 
vations. It was a picturesque concourse at the 
de Trzebon home. All kinds of hides would be 
displayed — panthers, bears, wolves, wild cats, 
catamounts, wolverenes, fishers, otters, red and 
grey foxes, beavers, martens and raccoons. 
When play was over the hunters repaired to 
the McCaleb residence and sold their furs, 
but they lingered longest in the congenial 
atmosphere of the de Trzebons. Of all 
the men who came to the Bohemian house- 
hold, Elsa de Trzebon admired Nicholas 


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McCaleb most. “ I hate his father, but I 
do like him,” she often told her husband. 
While she was always pleasant to Arminta 
Bower, she never treated her with the same 
degree of cordiality that she did her lover. 
On several occasions she took Nicholas into 
the house and gave him exhibitions of her 
powers of second sight. Once she told him 
that his uncle’s distillery in Donegal was be- 
ing destroyed by fire. He told his father, who 
scolded him and quoted scripture by the hour. 
Several months later he learned it was the 
truth. Another time she told him where six 
elks were hiding in a ravine only a couple of 
miles from the fiats. A party was organized 
and the elks slain. These mystic confidences 
made Arminta a trifle jealous. But she al- 
ways consoled herself by the thought that the 
woman was married, therefore harmless. 
Nicholas laughed when once she confided her 
unhappy feelings to him. “ But you must ad- 
mit she’s pretty,” urged Arminta. “ She’s 
pretty,” replied the young man, “ but not the 
kind of prettiness I like; she’s not pretty like 
you.” But jealousy once aroused can never 


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be downed except by the death or disappear- 
ance of the person feared. At the same time 
the de Trzebon home was an interesting place 
to stroll to, and Nicholas showed in every way 
he could that his interest lay wholly with 
Arminta. One afternoon when the gifted 
woman confided to him that the raft on which 
Bill Erskine, a young man with whom he had 
quarrelled over some girl, would be wrecked 
going through the chute at Muncy Dam above 
Montgomery’s Ferry, with the loss of four lives, 
including Erskine’s, she also related the story 
of her life. There wasn’t much to it. If there 
had been it couldn’t have been told quickly 
enough to keep Arminta, who was waiting out- 
side, from becoming impatient. Elsa de 
Trzebon, so she stated, had been born twenty- 
two years before at the ancient castle of Neu- 
haus, in Bohemia. She was the youngest child 
in a large family, being the daughter of a 
younger brother of the Count von Rosenberg, 
who owned the estates and castle. It was an 
historic family, proud and aristocratic. But 
their chief glamor was having produced a 
world-renowned ghost, the famous White Lady , 


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who had such a penchant for appearing before 
members of the German royal families shortly 
before their deaths. In each generation some 
member of the family possessed supernatural 
gifts ; in this generation she was the one. But 
it was strange that these gifts never developed 
until after some tragedy in the life of the seer 
or seeress. Elsa von Rosenberg had led an 
uneventful and monotonous life as a poor de- 
pendent in a rich house until she was eighteen. 
Then a marriage was arranged for her with 
one Nebo Salamonski, son of a wealthy banker 
in Breslau. Breslau meant as little to Nich- 
olas as Shanghai, but he remembered the name, 
and repeated it later. She didn’t like the 
proffered husband from the start; she detested 
him when she compared him with Alois de 
Trzebon, a youth of gentle birth, who acted as 
a sort of over-gamekeeper and hunting compan- 
ion to the occupants of the castle. The wed- 
ding journey was to be made partly by car- 
riage, with Paris as the ultimate destination. 
The first night was to be spent at a picturesque 
inn, in a mountain pass about seventeen miles 
from the castle. The hotel was built against 


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the side of the mountain. In front was a road, 
a ravine, and a waterfall. There was a back 
door which opened on the mountain, and here 
the bartered bride made her escape while the 
bridegroom was superintending the un- 
harnessing of his handsome horses. Alois met 
her on the mountain top, among the dense firs, 
and knowing every path, they baffled detection, 
and ultimately sailed for America, from a 
French seaport. A land company in Philadel- 
phia sold them the farm on the “ flats.” That 
was the story of Elsa von Kosenberg-Salamon- 
ski-de Trzebon to date. She had suggested that 
Nicholas keep the story to himself, but as he 
considered Arminta and himself as “ one,” she 
heard it from him. He had often told her that 
since he met her “ his life was an open-book.” 
To have concealed this interesting story from 
her would have broken an otherwise spotless 
record of “ confidences.” Whether Alois and 
Elsa were happy together was a question often 
discussed by Nicholas and Arminta. “ I don’t 
see how they can be,” Arminta would say, 
“ with the memory of that man she deserted 
hanging over her.” But as no one in the grass 


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Hats region had seen the deserted Salamonski, 
the merits of the case could not be adjudicated. 
Elsa seemed happy enough, although Arminta 
was about her only woman caller. The other 
women in the Bower household, though friendly 
enough, had too much work to cultivate her 
acquaintance. Arminta being in love was 
granted more liberty of movement. Among 
the visitors at the de Trzebon home were, as 
stated previously, Indian hunters from the 
northern reservations. The most conspicuous of 
these was Bob Sunday, a full-blooded Seneca, of 
colossal proportions. He appeared at the flats 
regularly twice a year, spring and fall, and 
always had a stock of choice furs. One spring, 
after selling his stock to old McCaleb, he urged 
Nicholas to go north with him on an elk hunt. 
“ I know where there are a hundred elks. No 
one else knows, and we might as well kill them 
as any one else. You can be back in time to 
start on your rafting trip.” This was said in 
the old man’s hearing, but he could not protest, 
as Nicholas was nearing his twenty-third birth- 
day. If he returned in time to help run the 
logs to the Big Moshannon, and man the 


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rafts from that point, he could not complain. 
“ I’ll let you know in the morning,” was 
the young man’s final reply before he went 
to bed that night. When he awoke, after 
dreams of the chase, he was full of en- 
thusiasm for the hunt. It was the consensus 
of opinion among old hunters that elks were 
getting scarce in Pennsylvania. They could 
not last much longer. They would soon go the 
way of the buffaloes. It wasn’t the right 
season, but they would kill them just for their 
tongues and hearts. Before breakfasting he 
hurried over to the Bower home to tell Arminta 
of his intention. He had gone on many hunt- 
ing trips before, and his rafting excursions had 
taken him hundreds of miles from home, so 
there was no reason why the girl should object. 
But one can never be sure how a woman will 
take anything. Arminta burst into tears, and 
ran into the house without saying “ goodbye.” 
Nicholas was angered by her “ baby conduct,” 
as he called it, and made no effort to find her. 
He joined the Indian, striking out for the 
north across the mountain trails. Once in the 
Black Forest they followed Canoe Run to- 


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wards its headwaters, which were in an im 
mense swamp. It had been burned over the 
year before, and that, together with the back- 
wardness of the spring foliage, made it easily 
surveyed from the surrounding hills. The elks 
were nowhere to be seen, but two other hunters 
with their faces almost hidden by black beards 
were skulking about the eastern boundary of 
the lowland. “ I thought no one knew of this 
place but myself,” said the Indian, dejectedly. 
“ Never mind, Bob,” said the young hunter, 
“ we’ll get the elks ; they won’t have a show 
at them.” Night coming on, a fire was built 
and camp started. After a brief supper it was 
decided that one of the party go to sleep, and 
the other stay on watch, as they sort of dis- 
trusted the two hunters they had seen during 
the afternoon. They drew lots, and it fell to 
Bob to go on watch, and for Nicholas to sleep. 
About midnight two rifle shots were heard, and 
both men jumped to their feet. The strange 
hunters had fired on them from ambush. But 
they had miscalculated. Bob and Nicholas 
shot off their own firearms, but nothing more 
happened until morning. Then the actual hunt 


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for the elks began. The mysterious adventure 
of the night was almost forgotten. Five miles 
to the north, on the waters of Brown Bear Run, 
the herd was located. “ They’re feeding and 
playing now,” said the Indian, “ at sundown 
they’ll start travelling up the hollow, to spend 
the night on the summit.” Behind a windfall 
the hunters awaited their quarry. The hem- 
lock glade was always dark, but there were 
signs of increasing gloom as sundown ap- 
proached. True to prediction, the noble ani- 
mals started up the glen in single file. How 
different they looked from the western or 
northern elks we see to-day in our zoological 
gardens. Long, rangy, low-bodied elks they 
were, almost approaching the drab or slate 
color, dappled, with nothing of the tawny hue 
we associate with cervus Americanus. They had 
almost the conformation of reindeers. As they 
drew near the hunters, their leader, a bull with 
many-tined antlers bursting through the velvet, 
stopped and sniffed the air. Then he began 
snorting and grunting. The other elks began 
running in different directions. Just then 
rifle shots rang out from behind. Bob and 


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Nicholas toppled over, lost their balances, and 
fell into the bed of the stream, mortally 
wounded. Then all was silence. Stealthily 
two forms crept down from the mountain and 
rifled the pockets of the dead. Bob Sunday 
had over fifty dollars, and Nicholas almost as 
much. Nicholas had a silver watch; both 
hunters had rifles and ammunition. Taking 
everything, the mountain outlaws crept up the 
hill, and disappeared. Next morning the herd 
of elks on their way down the ravine came 
upon the dead bodies of their would-be slayers. 
The bull elks, great, heavy, long-bodied brutes, 
drab of color, and spotted like hyenas, trampled 
the human remains until they were unrecog- 
nizable. All the other elks walked over them 
and sniffed at them as they filed onward to the 
playgrounds. That morning Arminta awoke 
after a night of troubled dreams. She had had 
confused visions of elks, horns, and men with 
horns ; all was horrible and complex. “ Some- 
thing has happened to Nicholas,” were the first 
words that came to her. She had to help with 
breakfast. It seemed interminable until the 
repast was cooked and eaten and the dishes 


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washed. She was trembling from head to foot 
as she ran down the path to Elsa de Trzebon’s 
borne. The Black Moshannon was much swollen 
by spring rains. Alois was digging garden 
and waved his hat as she passed. Inside the 
house she found Elsa in a white dress walking 
up and down like a caged wolf, muttering to 
herself. “ Has anything happened ?” said 
Arminta with alarm. Elsa glared at her and 
said, “ Fm finding that out now; I’ll tell you 
in a minute.” For a minute more she con- 
tinued walking up and down. Suddenly she 
stopped in the centre of the room and put her 
hands over her eyes. “ I see it all now,” she 
gasped. “ Nicholas is lying there — he is dead 
— yes, he is dead. Bob Sunday lies beside him ; 
he, too, is dead. I see the elks ; there must be 
a hundred of them — great, rangy, low-bodied 
elks, drab in color, and spotted with black, 
trampling, marching, galloping over, mauling 
the dead bodies.” Arminta could scarcely be- 
lieve her ears, and sank into a chair. “ They 
were murdered last night by two men,” con- 
tinued Elsa; “ I see them, I know them; 
they’ve been here as our friends. Oh, Nich- 


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olas, my love, my love; 1 can never see you 
again in this life. I loved you, Nicholas, Nich- 
olas, my love/’ Horrified to hear her lover 
mentioned as being beloved by another, and 
unable to stand the terrible news, Arminta ran 
to the garden to warn Alois of his wife’s con- 
dition. Hardly had she gone when Elsa ran 
out the front door and down the path in the 
direction of Black Moshannon. She climbed 
out on the stump of an old black birch which 
overhung the deep water, and plunged in. 
Alois and Arminta spied her, but it was too 
late. She rose to the surface a couple of times, 
and they called to her. The last time she 
seemed to shake her head, and disappeared for- 
ever. Alois was in the water after her, being 
within a few feet of her when she sank for the 
last time. Arminta, terribly unnerved, but 
bearing up nobly, hurried home, and her father 
and brothers in dugouts were soon paddling 
around and sounding the water with poles for 
the body. It was not recovered. Most prob- 
ably some current from the spring rains run- 
ning along the bottom of the dead water car- 
ried it to the swift water beyond, where it 


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lodged among logs or drifts between there and 
the Big Moshannon. But could a spirit like that 
of Elsa de Trzebon find rest in death? Far 
from it; she must expiate her own sins and 
the sins of her race. On dark nights Alois 
fancied he saw the luminous figure of a woman 
all in white walking on the water, near the 
far shore. The entire Bower family saw it; 
only the McOalebs did not — but they were too 
grief - stricken over the loss of their son to 
notice anything. Alois moved away first; 
he said he must have city life. He was last 
heard of in Pittsburg in 1860. The Bowers 
were next to go. Arminta was all broken up 
by the murder of Nicholas; she needed change 
of scene. They returned to the old home near 
Friedensburg, in Berks County. The McCalebs 
soon followed. “ It doesn’t seem the same place 
since Nicholas has gone,” was their excuse. 
They found more congenial surroundings in 
the Spruce Creek Valley. But the luminous 
female figure all in white, that walked upon 
the waters on dark nights, remained. She 
seemed to thrive on loneliness; stillness 
brought her into bolder relief. If she has a 


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special “ mission/’ as they say in ghostly cir- 
cles, doubtless she is waiting to see if the 
murderers of her lover, whom she recognized, 
will return. Hunters and fishermen quickly 
pre-empted the three deserted farm-houses, but 
they could not be happy in them and just as 
quickly vacated them. One and all saw the 
silent, silvery figure, more like moonlight than 
a woman. The sight of her was depressing; 
it made strong men shudder and gasp. “ She 
must be horribly unhappy to make us feel this 
way,” said one bold mountaineer. Perhaps 
that was the reason why some one burned the 
three houses to the ground one August night 
in 1891. The burning of the cabins, or the 
“ lessening of her environment,” as the 
spiritists say, made the white spirit more 
transparent, filmy and vague, but there are 
traces of her still discernible on the dead water 
on particularly calm nights. 


IX. 


THE DANCING CHAIRS 

UST as readily as one can tell on 
sight a Catholic priest, or a 
physician, or a church edifice, 
or a schoolhouse, a haunted 
house can be differentiated from 
its fellows. One could feel cer- 
tain that the old weather-beaten 
mansion at Kern’s Store, that 
had once been painted red, was haunted, even 
when first seeing it from across the valley a 
mile away. It was not because of the sign 
“ no banting” scrawled in crooked characters 
on a board nailed to a tree in a wood as one 
emerges from Wolf Gap that makes us feel 
we are in ghostly territory; it is the aspect, 
terrible, lonely, bleak, of the old house on the 
Pike. The shutters are so tightly closed, the 
path running to the side door is so overgrown 
with weeds, and the dead pear trees in the 
yard so dilapidated, that it would appear like 
a house deserted were it not for the uneon- 
162 



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trollable feeling of the presence of a ghost. 
Under the eaves run a row of tiny windows, 
storm stained and rusty paned, that look like 
eyes that have cried and dried their tears and 
cried again, veritable eyes of the ghost. The 
front gate is tied with a string, a string so 
musty, that it would seem it had not been 
untied for years. Visitors when they came 
respected the tied gate, and made ingress 
through the barnyard. There remains no liv- 
ing foliage around the haunted house, but on 
a windy, chill afternoon in April it looks barer 
and more forbidding than ever. It is six years 
since I heard the story of the old house. My 
informant was reluctant to tell it, and probably 
would not have done so at all, had it not been 
that we were driving one dark night from 
Loganton across the mountain to Stover’s, and 
it came as natural to discuss “ banting” as it 
would to discuss blossoms in an orchard in 
May-time. The ghost of the old mansion at 
Kern’s Store dates back to Civil War times, a 
period rich in the production of a new crop of 
wandering spirits. The Civil War days loosed 
more restless shades upon the countryside than 


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any other force since America was discovered. 
It did for our ghostly history what Cromwell 
did for the ghosts of Ireland, the Wars of the 
Loses for ghostly England, and the Thirty 
Years War for continental ghosts. As one old 
Irishman put it, “ Were it not for Cromwell we 
would have precious few ghosts in Ireland.” 
Ghosts are born of injustice, and unrighteous- 
ness ; no one ever heard of a ghost admitting a 
square deal before or after dissolution. Ghosts 
are disappointments personified, wrongs per- 
petuated. The haunted house figuring in this 
story was built less than sixty years ago, but it 
looks as old, and sad, and lonely as if it had 
stood for centuries. It looks so old that its 
architecture might be of any period, so long 
as it was old. Its builder, Samuel Kern, was 
a prosperous lumberman and farmer of Timber 
Valley. Later he built a general store at the 
X-roads. and the post-office, the first in that 
end of the valley, was named for him. The 
store prospered, as did his lumbering and farm- 
ing enterprises, so he erected, a hundred yards 
from the store, the great frame mansion which 
now goes by the name of the “ haunted house.’' 


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Old Kern was happily married and had a 
numerous family at various periods of his life. 
But children’s diseases ravaged his home on 
several occasions, eventually leaving to his de- 
voted wife and himself one daughter, Esther, 
to grow to maturity. It was not the ghosts 
of these children that haunted the house. They 
were well cared for and much beloved. When 
they died they were happy; those of them who 
were old enough fancying they were going to 
an even happier abode. If there had been no 
Civil War the mansion might have escaped its 
ghostly affiliations, and succeeding generations 
of occupants renewed religiously the red paint 
that was generously slapped over it when it 
was built in 1855. Esther, Samuel Kern’s sur- 
viving child, was seventeen the day President 
Lincoln issued his first call for troops in 1861. 
It seemed fitting that the one active period 
of her life should be indissolubly linked with 
the war. Before the war broke out, nothing 
definite can be learned concerning her except 
that she was “ a sweet little thing.” After the 
war she became as colorless as does any other 
dweller in a haunted house. A mile further 


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down the Pike, on the farm now occupied by 
Moses Smitgall, in the shade of Francis Penn’s 
Bethrothal trees, lived Azariah Hartline, also 
a prosperous farmer. He, too, had been blessed 
with a devoted wife and a numerous progeny, 
and Providence was kind enough to spare them 
all. The oldest boy, Gibson, was just two years 
and one day older than Esther Kern, and he, 
too, waked into full consciousness w T ith the out- 
break of the war. Had he not during the 
winter just coming to a close learned to take a 
deep interest in Esther, he might have been one 
of the first boys in the valley to head for the 
county seat to enlist. The deer-horns and bear- 
paws nailed to the barn-doors showed his skill 
as a rifleman, and he would have been promptly 
detailed as a sharp-shooter. He often dis- 
cussed the war with his young sweetheart, but 
Timber Valley was so remote in those days 
before the L. & T. was built that it seemed to 
them as an echo rather than a call to arms. 
All through the summer of 1861, Gibson saw 
Esther at regular intervals at the simple social 
gatherings in the valley. She seemed to have 
thoughts of no other boy, and he surely favored 


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no other girl. But in between there was much 
hard work on the farm, which kept the young 
farmer’s ardor from boiling over. When the 
hunting season opened there was more time 
for play, and Gibson’s luck became proverbial 
among his friends. Esther, pretty, brown- 
haired, and with brown eyes with little spots 
of red in them like those on the sides of a 
mountain trout, often attended the post office 
and store, when her father or her cousin David 
Owens, who had a brother in the army and 
acted as postmaster, were absent. Gibson 
would always contrive to wind up his hunting 
trips at the head of the lane back of the store, 
and stop in for a few minutes to exhibit a 
string of black squirrels or wild pigeons or 
tell of a big buck he had shot and left in the 
woods. Esther would lean over the counter, 
and listen eagerly to every word he had to say. 
She looked so winsome in her simple frock 
and sateen black sleevelets, with her hair plainly 
brushed back and kept in place with a net. 
She had such pretty, even teeth and red 
lips and her manner was so engaging that 
Gibson, who was an excellent Bible student, 


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often recalled the lines in Solomon’s Song, 
“ Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are 
even shorn ; thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, 
and thy speech is comely.” With the ensuing 
winter the young couple maintained their 
friendly intercourse, and even when a soldier 
boy would appear at the sociables or pro- 
tracted meetings, he could not be a hero in the 
eyes of Esther, comparable to her sturdy Gib- 
son. And so during the year following the 
romance pursued the tenor of its way. Out in 
the mountains where, if one survives the dis- 
eases of childhood, life is long, and a primitive 
sense of honor keeps lovers true to one another, 
there was not the feverish haste to consummate 
a love affair like in the cities, or even exists in 
many of the rural districts to-day. Gradually 
the young couple become aware that they loved 
one another and would marry. Open declar 
ations of love were rare. Esther and Gibson 
understood that they would marry. On one 
occasion Gibson said that they would set a 
date after his twenty-first birthday. Esther 
trusted him, and never asked any further ques- 
tions; she knew that he would be twenty-one 


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on April 14, 1863. Gibson on several occa- 
sions discussed the question with his father. 
Old Azariah Hartline had married at twenty- 
one; it seemed perfectly natural his son should 
do likewise. There was a log-house near the 
Hartline home; sometimes it was occupied by 
a tenant farmer, but being vacant at that time, 
the father said he would put it in good condition 
for his son’s occupancy. Provided with a home, 
and true love, only hard work remained to make 
the union lastingly successful. But in Janu- 
ary, 1863, just before Gibson intended outlin- 
ing his plans to his sweetheart, old Samuel 
Kern, while sledding logs, was kicked by one 
of his horses as he fastened the chain traces, 
and died without regaining consciousness forty- 
eight hours later. When, some days later, the 
young lover confided his plans, Esther thanked 
him, but suggested that after their marriage 
they come to live with her mother in the man- 
sion. It would be a shame to start housekeep- 
ing a mile and a half away, and leave a half- 
sick woman alone in the big house. Gibson 
approved of this idea, and that night an ap- 
proximate date was set for the wedding. It 


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was to be “ after harvest.” Everybody in both 
families would have time to come to the cere- 
mony, and they could take a honeymoon trip 
to visit relatives at Williamsport and Lewis- 
burg. Esther was very happy. She was to 
marry her first love ; that was a sublime 
thought; it assuaged the grief she had felt 
over the shocking taking off of her father. 
When not working in the post office or helping 
her mother she was busy preparing her trous- 
seau. Tt would seem a simple affair, but to her 
it was a vast undertaking. Sometimes she 
employed Katie Angstadt, a crippled girl who 
lived nearby, and an excellent needlewoman, to 
help her. With the advent of spring, and with 
the wheat sprouting as it was in the fields, 
harvest time, and the happy marriage seemed 
near at hand. Then came the news of the in- 
vasion of Pennsylvania by the Confederate 
forces under General Lee; the attempt of 
General Gordon’s Cavalrymen to cross the 
Susquehanna at Wrightsville, and a train of 
alarming episodes. Peaceful Timber Valley 
was now thoroughly aroused. The roar of 
battle came to it no longer as an echo, but 


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as a call to arms. Gibson ever since 
President Lincoln’s first call in April, 1861, 
had confided to Esther that he felt he ought 
to enlist. Now he could resist no longer; it 
was not a question of choice; he must go and 
do his duty. Esther never faltered, she loved 
him as a home-maker, she loved him even more 
as a home-defender. It would not be for long; 
he might even be back in time to marry her 
“ after harvest.” On the very eve of Gettys- 
burg he spent his last night with his beloved 
before leaving for the front. It was too grand 
a night to remain indoors ; they spent it in an 
old box-swing that hung between two tulip 
trees growing along the fence at the west side 
of the yard. The lilac bushes, boxwoods, and 
Irish junipers shielded them from view of any 
one passing along the Pike, but it is doubtful if 
anyone passed that way on that night of nights. 
Esther’s pretty head rested upon her lover’s 
shoulder; they were in full harmony with 
themselves and with the world. Time becomes 
as nothing to those really happy ; it was nearly 
two o’clock in the morning when they clasped 
hands in a reluctant goodnight. “ Stop in to 


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see me for a minute,” said Esther, “ as you pass 
by in the morning.” “ I would love to, dear- 
est,” replied Gibson, “ but there is a supersti- 
tion in our family that it is bad luck to say 
goodbye twice. I could not feel content if I 
defied it.” Esther understood. The blending 
of races in the valley, German, Scotch-Irish, 
Huguenot, had woven their superstitions into 
the fibres of every soul. They were, whether 
they seriously believed them or not, an integral 
part of existence. Gibson did not look back 
when he left her at the gate, but kept his eyes 
straight ahead as he plodded the mile and more 
to his home. It had never occurred to him to 
say, “ Esther, be true to me, while I am away.” 
His belief in himself was so perfect, there 
seemed no earthly reason why he should ever 
waver, that he could not imagine his sweetheart 
meeting a man able to divert her for an instant. 
Parting on any other basis would have been 
painful in the extreme; under present condi- 
tions it was sublime. Esther would love him 
until he returned and they were married. She 
was the one woman in the world for him; he 
was the one man for her. Could ever embryo 


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defender of his state have a nobler profession 
of faith? At daybreak next morning he bade 
good-bye to his parents and younger brothers 
and sisters. Mounted on the best colt on the 
farm, with two younger brothers on older 
horses riding abreast of him as admiring out- 
riders, he started for Robertsburg, where he 
would take the stage for the county seat. The 
War Governor’s home was at that “ seat of 
justice”; for that reason it was a mecca for 
patriotic-minded youths. The sun was up 
early; July was to be ushered in with hot 
weather. Not a misgiving stirred his soul as 
he rode along the smooth, unshaded Pike. Con 
fidence was the keynote to his self -poise. Esther 
was also up at daybreak. She recalled the 
superstition regarding double farewells, and 
was careful not to go out in the yard so as to 
make the avoidance of waving “ goodbyes” to 
Gibson, in case she saw him, impossible. Yet 
she had a longing to see him just once more. 
She had not a doubt but that he would return 
in safety, but women are always on the look- 
out for uncertainty. They invite it. To see 
him without his seeing her she climbed into 


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the attic and posted herself at one of the tiny 
eye-like windows that commanded a prospect of 
the Pike for half a mile to where it ran up to 
the top of a hill, and disappeared abruptly on 
the other side. She had not waited long until 
she heard hoofbeats on the limestone road, and 
soon perceived the three young horsemen. Gib- 
son was riding in the centre, with one of his 
younger brothers on either side. All three 
boys seemed silent and thoughtful. Gibson’s 
head was down most of the time, except when 
he would pull himself together to rein in his 
spirited mount. She gazed long and lovingly 
at him, noting every feature of his firm, manly 
face. His tawny hair was long, and hung in 
loose, curly strands from under his soft hat. 
There was an aquiline curve to his nose, a firm- 
ness of the lips, bespeaking the courage of his 
soul. Esther could not keep her eyes off him, 
and watched him transfixed, growing smaller 
and smaller until he was lost to view where 
the Pike descended the further side of the steep 
hill. Even then she could not leave the window. 
He must have been almost to Robertsburg when 
she abandoned her vigil. She doubtless did 


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not realize that it is as bad luck to watch a 
loved one out of sight as to say goodbye twice. 
She was downcast and moody all day, but her 
mother did not chide her. The sewing re- 
mained untouched in the basket on the sitting- 
room table. She was mentally following her 
lover to the county seat. There in the stir of 
events while he was re-embarking for Harris- 
burg the “ mental wires” relaxed, and next day 
she felt better. She spent that morning sew- 
ing, gradually resuming her simple, grave, use- 
ful life. That night rumors of a great battle 
on Pennsylvania soil reached the little post 
office, which was densely crowded with agitated 
mountaineers and farmers. Outside long lines 
of wagons and saddle-horses were tied to every 
available fence and tree. All the county papers 
came in the morning following, making the 
post office continually popular as a place of 
resort. Parents who had sons in the army 
were especially eager for news, and the mail- 
carrier was nearly mobbed answering ques- 
tions. Esther, known to have a sweetheart 
who had recently enlisted, was an object of 
much interest, and she handled the large and 


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inquisitive crowd with tact and cheerfulness. 
The throng having begun to thin out a trifle, 
she left the office in charge of David Owens at 
about eleven o’clock and hurried down to the 
mansion to tell her mother the latest news and 
help prepare dinner. The news of battle made 
her blood run hot; she felt an exhilaration she 
had never experienced before. She was more 
keenly alive than at any time in her life. In 
her ears she seemed to hear the roar of cannons, 
the strains of martial music. Before her eyes 
flags seemed waving. As she was cutting pota- 
toes and gazing out of the window of the sum- 
mer kitchen she noticed far down the pike, 
in the direction of the Red Hills, a horse- 
man approaching. It wasn’t Gibson ; he 
was far away, in Harrisburg most likely. This 
man rode a powerful bay charger; Gibson’s 
mount was a sorrel colt. She had seen it led 
homeward riderless the evening he left; she 
had gone inside and shed tears about it. The 
horseman drew near. He wore a military suit 
and there was a heavy white bandage across 
his forehead. He stopped, dismounted and 
tied his horse at the post in front of the man 


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sion. When he put his feet on the ground, he 
showed a very decided limp. Dragging him- 
self around to the kitchen door, he was about 
to knock when it was opened by Mother Kern. 
“ Please excuse this intrusion/’ said the young 
soldier, doffing his hat, “ but isn’t this the Kern 
mansion? I’m on my way home to Milesburg. 
Tommy Owens, who is related to you I believe, 
and was in my company in the 14th Cavalry, 
said I should stop here and say that he’s feel- 
ing well and sends his love to all.” There was 
nothing else to do but to invite the polite war- 
rior to rest and remain for dinner. Esther 
joined in the conversation, and seeing the sol- 
dier’s physical disabilities ran out and led his 
charger to the barn to be fed. When she re- 
turned to the house, the stranger was sitting 
comfortably on the kitchen porch fanning him- 
self with his felt hat. By this time dinner 
was announced, and during the meal the visitor 
explained that bis name was Linn McNight, 
that he had served eighteen months in the 
cavalry, had been wounded twice, a sabre cut 
on the forehead, and a bullet in the thigh, that 
his present term of enlistment being over, he 


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was going home until he felt all right, when he 
would re-enlist. He had been in twenty-one 
battles, and had four horses shot under him. 
He felt badly he could not have participated 
in the big battle at Gettysburg, about which he 
seemed to know everything; nothing could 
have kept him out had his physical condition 
been such that he would have been accepted. 
After dinner Esther invited him to come into 
the parlor, which was cooler. He sat down on 
the horse-hair sofa, and began telling more of 
his military exploits. While other soldiers 
had returned to Timber Valley since the out- 
break of hostilities, Gibson had always been 
near, and they had not interested the young 
girl. This soldier was the only one in sight to- 
day ; he had been wounded twice defending his 
country, was young and handsome, but so dif- 
ferent from Gibson Hartline. In the first 
place he was very tall; Gibson was not over 
five feet eight. He had a decided stoop, or 
hump on his shoulders, which was not alto- 
gether attractive, but his nose was even longer 
and more aquiline than Gibson’s, his lips thin- 
ner and more compressed. His eyes were coal 


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black, as was his long dank hair. Esther felt 
something snap inside of her; it was the birth 
of a new interest. It was pleasing to hear him 
talk, and he was even planning to write to 
her or come to see her again when the tall 
clock in the hall chimed four. “ I must be 
going; I can’t get much further than Madison- 
burg by dark unless I hurry.” Before she 
could stop herself Esther exclaimed she was 
sorry he had to go so soon. Then she heard 
something else snap inside; this time it was 
her conscience, her memory of her own soldier 
boy struggling away somewhere with the weary 
routine of the first days of enlistment. She 
was rather reserved when she said “ good after- 
noon.” David Owens had come to the house 
after dinner, but did not like to break in on 
the stranger and Esther in the parlor. “ He’s 
taking a good rest,” Mrs. Kern explained. David 
was at the gate with the soldier’s horse, patting 
it on the neck and saying what a beauty it was. 
It surely was a handsome animal; McNight 
said that it was his charger; it had developed 
foul hoofs and he had bought it “ off the gov 
eminent” and was taking it to his home “ to 


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live in peace the balance of its days.” What a 
noble sentiment, thought David and Mrs. Kern. 
Esther thought nothing; her conscience was 
troubling her because she had allowed a hand- 
some stranger to make a temporary impression. 
Now she hated the sight of him, hump back, 
limp and all, but it was too late; for a few 
minutes her fidelity to Gibson had wavered. 
God help her! David became very friendly 
with the stranger in the few minutes he tarried 
at the gate, especially as he claimed to know 
his brother, and he waved goodbye a dozen 
times as he rode away. At the post office a 
score of idlers called to him and asked him if 
he had been near the great battle, but he shook 
his head and rode on. Esther lay awake all 
that night. She was in torment, but there was 
nothing to be done. Before morning she satis- 
fied herself that she meant nothing by the tem- 
porary flicker of interest in another man. She 
promised herself to forget the incident, and 
say nothing about it to Gibson, if he returned. 
Why do some women adopt the route of cow- 
ardice and deception; it must be that men 
treat them too harshly when they are frank. 


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During the remainder of the six months while 
Gibson was absent serving out his enlistment, 
Esther was true to him in thought and deed. 
Of course, Linn McNight did not write to 
her; he probably forgot her when he met the 
next doting and admiring girl; but if he had, 
his letter would have been thrown into the 
stove unopened. Gibson wrote frequently, and 
every few days Esther sent him tender, loving 
missives. Other soldiers stopped at the post 
office, some of them handsome and winning, 
but Esther did not heed them. They were as 
logs of wood to her. But in her heart of 
hearts rankled the memory of the hours spent 
with Linn McNight, fascinated by him, and 
utterly forgetful of her lover. Gibson was 
never able to get in a battle. Gettysburg was 
a thing of the past, and General Lee in retreat 
when he was mustered in at Harrisburg. He 
was put at guard duty on the battlefield, being 
present when President Lincoln delivered his 
immortal address at the dedication of the 
soldiers’ burying ground. When Esther re- 
ceived word that he was coming home she was 
at once happy and sad. Glad though she was 


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to see him, she would have felt happier had 
her conscience been clear. With her lover’s 
family she drove in the big farm-wagon to 
Kobertsburg to meet him. Christmas was near ; 
he was to be her Xmas gift, she said. When 
he got out of the stage, she saw that he was 
accompanied by Tommy Owens. Instantly the 
image of Linn McNight, the destroyer of her 
spiritual happiness, rose up before her. How 
terrible it seemed to her to think of that man 
the same instant she laid eyes on her lover 
after a separation of over six months. But 
she had the thought of the stranger none the 
less; it added to the weight of her oppressed 
conscience. There was a cordial greeting be- 
tween the lovers, and they had a delightful 
ride back to Kern’s Store. All the family had 
questions to ask, which Gibson answered in 
his straight-forward, modest manner. He had 
no battles nor wounds to boast of, his annals 
were brief, and he barely mentioned hearing 
the great Lincoln’s speech. With due consider- 
ation his family allowed him to get out of the 
wagon at the Kern mansion; he was to spend 
his first evening “ home” with his beloved. Mrs. 


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Kern and Esther made every effort to please 
him ; in turn he seemed so gracious and happy 
to be with them. It was arranged they were 
to marry the next week. After supper, the 
young people adjourned to the parlor, where 
Gibson seated himself on the horsehair sofa, 
in the same corner that had been occupied by 
Linn McNight on that unfortunate afternoon. 
When she looked at her lover, Esther could see 
the long, lank form of the other man. She 
shuddered. Gibson asked her if he should put 
some more wood in the stove. She said she 
felt comfortable ; externally she may have been. 
Why she did it, she could not tell, but she 
began saying how loyal and true she had been 
to Gibson during his absence. There was no 
reason for this, for he had never doubted her 
for an instant. If he had, his army experience 
would have been hideous. “ I never noticed a 
man while you were gone,” she went on to say ; 
“ I could not muster sufficient interest to talk 
to them; I could hardly be polite. I thought 
of you all the time.” As she said these words 
the heavy walnut centre table began to rock 
from side to side. “ Men naturally never came 


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to see me, but if they had I would have turned 
them over to mother.” With these words the 
giant walnut dresser in the corner of the room 
began to bounce about on its castors. “ I 
never thought of any other man while you 
were away.” With these words the heavy 
chairs began dancing about as if bewitched. 
“ I’m afraid I’m sick,” whispered Gibson from 
the sofa. He held his hand to his head, he 
strained his eyes, he could not be dreaming, 
the furniture was moving. Esther herself was 
terrified and moved over and sat beside her 
lover. As she did so the sofa toppled over on 
them, and they lay in a sprawling mass on the 
floor. When they got up, they fled from the 
room, spending the rest of the evening in the 
kitchen. Gibson went home that night thor- 
oughly perplexed. The weird happenings, 
about which he feared to speak, took the wire- 
edge off the happiness he supposed he would 
feel at seeing Esther again. The next night, 
when they attempted to sit in the parlor, the 
furniture carried on outrageously. The heavy 
dresser eventually fell over, smashing the 
marble top of the centre-table and breaking the 


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185 


lamp. A conflagration was narrowly averted. 
Mrs. Kern was awakened by the racket, and 
accused the young couple of horse play in the 
parlor. A third night they attempted to oc 
cupv the bewitched room, but when the chairs 
began to climb over one another they ran from 
the apartment before anything more serious 
would happen. ‘‘ What can it all mean?” 
Gibson asked many times. A voice within 
Esther told her it was some unseen and potent 
“ god of love” showing his displeasure at her 
trying to entertain her lover in a room where 
she had flirted with another. By keeping away 
from the parlor all went smoothly. As the 
day of the marriage drew near Esther began 
wondering whether she dared risk having the 
ceremony performed in that parlor, or invent 
some excuse to have it elsewhere. Her fears 
were active, so when she confided them to Gib- 
son, he agreed it would be a nice compliment 
to his parents to have them married in their 
home. Rev. Speece united them, and the cere- 
mony went off without a hitch. The wedding 
trip was harmonious, visits being paid to Will- 
iamsport, Sunbury, New Berlin and Lewisburg. 


186 


Indian Steps 


Upon their return they took up their residence 
in the Kern mansion. All went well until one 
evening they decided to sit in the parlor. In- 
stantly the chairs began to dance and hammer. 
They were, indeed, glad to beat a retreat. At 
other times they attempted the same thing, but 
the furniture always rebelled against their 
presence. Esther hit upon the idea of putting 
the walnut furniture in the attic, and buying 
a new set in Bellefonte. After this was done 
they sat in the parlor to their hearts’ content. 
But when the furniture was exiled, the love be- 
tween Esther and Gibson began to cool. There 
was a shadow across their path; the shade of 
a deception and an untruth; it was a barrier 
to complete union. Gibson felt ill at ease with 
his young wife; he knew not why. She seemed 
devoted to him, yet in her heart she felt as 
uncomfortable as he. Each felt that they were 
acting a part; something was being left un- 
said; sincerity was no more. Gibson, natur- 
ally a home-loving man, invented business trips 
that took him frequently to Robertsburg, 
Logansville and to the county seat. When he 
returned, sometimes the worse for liquor, 


Indian Steps 


187 


Esther would complain that she had heard the 
old walnut parlor set dancing away in the 
attic. Sometimes when she was alone she 
would vow to tell him how she had admired 
another man soon after he left to enlist, yet it 
seemed a very little thing after all. But al- 
ways when she had that high resolve he would 
come home partly intoxicated, and she feared 
to confess. Before they were thirty their 
neighbors, and even relatives, declared they 
were eccentric. Old Mrs. Kern died suddenly, 
and that cut them further off from the world. 
The farm was beginning to run down, and 
David Owens had no one to dispute his sway 
in the post office and store. One night while 
Gibson was driving home from Robertsburg 
his horse shied at something— maybe a ghost, 
and he was thrown out fracturing his skull on 
one of the projecting limestone rocks by the 
roadside. He never regained consciousness and 
died forty-eight hours later, as had his wife’s 
father exactly ten years before. This ended 
the career of Gibson Hartline, civil war vet- 
eran, aged 31 years. Esther, left to her own 
devices, shrunk even more within herself. Some 


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predicted she would marry again; she was 
good looking, well off, and under thirty. But 
she never let a man except the preachers get 
inside the house. Crippled Katie Angstadt 
was engaged to live with her, but she left, and 
more than hinted about hearing strange noises 
in the attic. Other women held the position 
from time to time. No one stayed very long. 
A hired man came daily to do the work at the 
barn. Once in a while visitors would come 
to spend an evening out of pity for the poor, 
lonesome creature. In the midst of pleasant 
conversations an awful banging would arise 
in the attic above. Esther would always ex- 
cuse herself, and when she came back the noise 
was no more, but she would be deathly pale. 
On still nights late passersby along the Pike 
would hear the bang, bang, bang, like falling 
chairs, away up in the top story of the mansion, 
in the room with the tiny windows like evil- 
eyes. Latterly, Esther Hartline has few vis- 
itors. She is getting more taciturn, less genial, 
less gentle. The noises in the attic are louder, 
and she has to stay upstairs longer to quell 
them when they interrupt her company. She 


Indian Steps 


189 


has a haunted, hunted look, as if borne down 
by a host of sorrows. Like a cancer grows 
from an infinitesimal germ, unhappiness, 
wretchedness, grief, springs from a petty de- 
ception, a small lie. Growing day by day. 
gripping her with tentacles of remorse and de- 
spair, it will some time choke into gloom and 
death the remnants of her suffering conscience. 


X. 


GIPSY SWEETHEART 

HERE was a grove of giant white 
oaks, black oaks, a few walnuts 
and a couple of original white 
pines on the hill which sloped 
gradually down to the river 
bank. It was here that I used 
to sit on the clear summer morn- 
ings watching the Gipsy cara- 
along on the opposite side of the 
river. The dust-begrimed drivers, horses and 
dogs all seemed to have spirit and action at 
the distance from where I viewed them, and 
the worn-out paint on wheels and wagon trucks 
gleamed bright in the morning sunlight. As 
I sat admiring and musing over the distant 
pageant, the intervening river seemed to typify 
the gulf which separated me from the life I 
wanted to lead. Small boy that I was, I loved 
to imagine that some of my ancestors were 
Gipsies, or vagabonds of some kind; gentle, 
friendly wanderers over the face of the earth. 

190 


MY 


T 



vans trailing 


Indian Steps 


191 


But that was all the further it got; with each 
passing band went my hopes of the free, un- 
circumscribed life, and I sent a part of my 
spirit after every cavaran. Though a railroad 
ran through the valley a mile further inland 
from my vantage-ground, which connected with 
the large cities east and west, my idea of seeing 
the “ big world” seemed to be through the 
means of a Gipsy caravan. When I thought 
of some distant mountain, or river, or quaint 
city that I had read of in my beloved geogra- 
phies, I always imagined reaching it through 
aid of the Gipsies. I would have scorned the 
chance to go in a stuffy sleeper. It must have 
been the fresh air, and the human side of 
travel, that made Gipsies appeal to me so 
strongly. They did what they wanted to; 
there was no rule, no schedule to their pil- 
grimages; if I travelled by train there were 
time-tables to follow, picturesque spots would 
have to be passed unscanned ; even eating and 
sleeping was regulated, narrow, and overbear- 
ing. I often wondered why the Gipsies never 
came on the side of the river where I lived. 
It would have been an ideal place for them to 


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camp, under the ancient oaks. The old folks 
said it was because it was off the main line of 
travel; they disliked the trouble of crossing 
the old rope ferry; but others said it was be- 
cause a baud of these people had been ill-used 
in our hamlet fifty years before, and Gipsies 
never forget. People on the other shore liked 
Gipsies, so they said; on this side they were 
looked upon as worthless wretches, best kept 
at a distance. “ It’s a lucky thing for you they 
never came on this side,” said old John Dyce, 
one morning, as he stretched his long, slim 
form full length on the grass beside the old 
oak stump where I sat. “ They are very fond 
of fair-haired children ; every caravan has two 
or three; they are so dark themselves they 
must kidnap the light-haired youngsters.” 
Then he looked to see what impression his words 
made. Having much red gold hair myself, I 
felt instinctively that I would be marked for 
kidnapping; this gave an added thrill to the 
Gipsies, but 1 never feared them on this ac- 
count. To be kidnapped would be an interest- 
ing adventure to a small boy who lacked the 
courage to run away. But one bright morn- 



A LARGE SKID WAY; OVER 3000 LOGS 




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Indian Steps 


193 


ing a little barefoot boy, much sunburned and 
enthusiastic, met me at the door as I was emerg- 
ing from the old house to enjoy a day under 
the grand old trees. “ Herndon,” he said, 
“ the Gipsies camped last night in the oak 
grove below the eddy; they came across the 
mountains from Nippenose Valley; they’ve got 
some of the prettiest spotted ponies you ever 
laid eyes on.” The first part of this statement 
thrilled me, and the second part set me into 
action. In an instant I was scampering after 
my barefooted companion down the road under 
the restless oaks in the direction of the river, 
a mile away. Then there was another run of 
half a mile along the bank to the grove, where 
in the distance I could discern the ramifica- 
tions of the encampment. On the outskirts 
were picketed many lean bay horses, the calico 
ponies, a steer and two or three black and 
white goats. Inside this bulwark of livestock 
were the wagons, painted white with red and 
blue trimmings, the tents and open fire-places. 
We were a little shy about approaching near to 
the outfit. We had never been so close to 
Gipsies before in our lives. We did not know 


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how they would use us, although I was not 
afraid because my hair was blonde. We sat on 
the grass at a respectful distance, watching. 
Everything was novel and interesting to our 
boyish fancies, even the dull swishing of the 
gaunt bay horses’ tails to keep olf the flies. 
They may have been poor-looking horses, but 
they seemed of peculiar moment to us because 
they were Gipsy horses. The ponies were un- 
usual looking — their colors abounded in the 
West, but to us they were as rare as if brought 
down from some far star. I patted one of the 
black and white goats; I wanted to know what 
a Gipsy goat felt like. The Gipsies themselves 
seemed like an unapproachable crowd; they 
kept close around their wagons and tents, and 
my companion suggested if they were as bad 
as old folks painted, they probably made no 
move until night, and then started out to 
forage. There were some Gipsy children in 
the party. They appeared more lively than 
their elders, but we looked in vain for the fair- 
haired children supposed to be with every cara- 
van. The children we saw were very dark, and 
undersized. My companion again volunteered 


Indian Steps 


195 


the idea that the fair-haired children were 
doubtless shut up in the wagons for fear their 
parents would see and claim them. There 
were four Gipsy boys and one girl, about our 
ages, who came out among the horses and pon- 
ies, and kept looking at us, as if they wanted to 
become acquainted. Young though I was, the 
little girl interested me more than the boys. 
I noticed that she was not as dark as the boys, 
but she was a brunette. Her skin was smooth 
and white, and that perhaps made her eyes 
and hair look darker than they really were. 
But her brows and lashes were black. She 
could see that I kept looking at her, and began 
to stroke the mane of one of the ponies, as 
much as to say, “ You can stroke him too.” I 
went over and began to admire the pony, which 
was a stallion, and very showy. “ What’s his 
name?” 1 made bold to inquire. “ Prince, we 
call him,” said the Gipsy girl, stroking the 
mane and foretop more vehemently than ever. 
And thus the acquaintance began. My com- 
panion began talking with the Gipsy boys, and 
then without notifying me slipped off through 
the fields to get his dinner. Thus I was left 


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alone in the Gipsy camp. The Gipsy boys re- 
treated off by themselves, and I continued my 
conversation with the little girl. “ My name’s 
Elsie Stanley; my father’s chief of the party,” 
was one of the interesting bits of information 
I gleaned from her. I told her who I was, a 
city boy spending summers in the mountains, 
and it turned out my home in New York was 
just across the river from where the Gipsy band 
had wintered, Jersey City. The band intended 
spending the next winter in that paradise of 
Gipsies, Cincinnati. I confess if I liked the 
looks of the spotted pony Prince, I liked those 
of Elsie Stanley better. She was twelve years 
old, just my age, and that made a bond be- 
tween us. Though I had just twenty-five cents 
in my pockets, I determined to ask the price of 
the pony. Elsie said that he was for sale, 
and offered to escort me to meet her father to 
discuss the terms. We made our way through 
the maze of horses, and eventually found Bill 
Stanley sitting in the shade of his wagon, 
mending a horse-collar. He smiled when he 
saw me, and I felt that Gipsies were not only 
very much like other people, but were good 


Indian Steps 


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natured as well. “ I want forty dollars for 
that pony,” he said ; “ He’s just a little too 
light for our kind of work, but he’d make a fine 
saddler for some boy like you.” “ Well, sir,” 
I replied, “ I will ask my mother if I can have 
him, and let you know this evening.” I hadn’t 
the faintest idea she would buy me a strange, 
untried pony from a Gipsy, but I honestly in- 
tended to make an effort to convince her he was 
just what I wanted and perfectly safe. “We 
have a fine cowboy saddle and a genuine Mexi- 
can bridle that I’d throw in for ten dollars 
extra,” continued the Gipsy leader, as he took 
me over to one of the other wagons, and 
dragged the outfit from under a pile of harness 
and tack for my inspection. Elsie was close 
at our heels all the time, and would constantly 
chime in and praise the pony, saddle and bridle. 
At first I thought she was a clever little sales- 
lady, but later it occurred to me she was 
genuinely fond of Prince and wanted to see 
him get a good home. By the time I had seen 
all of Prince’s trappings it was dinner time, 
and Mrs. Stanley, a large, strong featured 
woman, invited me to remain in camp and 


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partake of the meal. The cooking was good, 
and everything tasted especially appetizing in 
the open air. As we ate I kept telling every 
one how much I admired the pony stallion. 
I had never owned a stallion, and declared I 
would have more pleasure with one than with 
any other horse. After the meal Elsie and I 
returned to the edge of the camp to take a final 
look at Prince before I went out to broach the 
subject at home. I kept lingering around the 
pony; there was something I wanted to say. 
At last I plucked up courage and asked the 
little girl to come along when I went out to 
the house. Among ordinary “ cut and dried” 
people she might have hesitated or run back 
to beg permission. This Gipsy girl was more 
self-reliant, as she promptly answered “ yes.” 
When we got half-way out to the house we met 
my mother taking her afternoon drive in the 
surrey, driven by the old white-bearded family 
coachman. She seemed rather surprised to 
see me with a little strange girl, and I con- 
sidered it an unpropitious time to discuss the 
subject of buying a pony. After she had gone 
by I told Elsie I wanted to wait until the drive 


Indian Steps 


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was over, and suggested meanwhile we walk 
out the Gap in the direction of the five springs. 
I stopped at the house for a moment to get a 
tin cup, and as 1 came through the yard 
plucked a bunch of blue-flags and gave them to 
Elsie. We lingered quite a while at the springs, 
drinking the pure waters which gurgled out 
of the rocks, and listening to the bird-songs 
and the breezes rustling the branches of the 
old trees. Then we decided to continue our 
walk further out the Gap. I showed her sev- 
eral more springs, the group of dense timber 
on the edge of the mountain where the wild 
pigeons used to nest, the path where the wild 
turkeys came down from the mountain, the 
tree on which a buzzard, the only one in the 
township, roosted— and then I wanted to show 
her “ the three bridges” which crossed the 
creek at intervals of nearly a mile apart, the 
first one being a mile beyond the springs. By 
the time we got to the “ second bridge” we 
were pretty well acquainted. We had dis- 
cussed almost everything within the range of 
our youthful experience, and they were serious 
topics too, considering our ages. We both loved 


200 


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nature, and often I would pause to call her 
attention to the weird cries of the blue jays 
perched high on dead pines, or the rat-a-tap-tap 
of the red-headed woodpeckers. We sat for a 
long time on the “ second bridge.” The creek 
was especially swift at that point, and rushed, 
and roared, and tumbled along like an ava- 
lanche. On all sides the great, round cones of 
the mountains shut us off from the rest of the 
world. Every tree on the mountains was 
clearly defined in the afternoon sun — high above 
one of the summits a hawk was soaring, ma- 
jestically, leisurely, drowsily. I put my arms 
around Elsie, and she rested her pretty head 
on my shoulder. The tumble and the whirl 
and the swirl of the run sounded in our ears 
like a lullaby. The last image of the waking 
world 1 had was the hawk soaring, sweeping, 
sailing. I do not know how long we dozed 
in each other’s arms, but we waked to hear a 
banging and a thumping and a rattling around 
the hill beyond the bridge. It was the rumble 
of a loaded prop-timber wagon. Soon the 
heavy truck hove into sight and “ Gust” Wills, 
the teamster, waved his blacksnake whip at 


Indian Steps 


201 


me, and leaned far over and whispered, making 
sure that Elsie would hear, “ Where’d you get 
the girl?” We both laughed, and we watched 
the creaking load until it was lost to sight. 
Gradually its rumble grew less, and all was still 
save for the lullaby of the run. Why we fell 
asleep a second time I don’t know, but we did, 
and must have enjoyed it. This time when we 
awoke, it was dark — the first thing I saw was 
that constellation I used to call the “ kite,” 
which is said to resemble the Southern Cross. 
Some “ peepers” that had kept up their love- 
making far into June were chorusing cheerily 
in a nearby marshland. On the nearest hill 
side ocasionally a whip-poor-will gave vent to 
his soul-stirring notes. “ Oh, Elsie,” I said* 
“ this is the happiest night of my life; this is 
just the kind of life I want to lead.” “ I enjoy 
it myself,” said Elsie. “ I wish we would never 
have to go back.” Had I known that I would 
never be able to lead the life I wanted to I 
would have taken her at her word and wan- 
dered somewhere. We brushed off our clothes, 
and started hand in hand, for the camp by 
the riverside. The woods were dark and 


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Indian Steps 


melancholy, the mountains seemed to grow 
taller as they carved their outlines from the 
vastness of the night. Once we saw a high 
white stump covered with fox-fire — it glowed 
phosphorescent, like a ghost. We ran a 
quarter of a mile; when we stopped, breath- 
less, we didn’t know if we had been scared or 
had run because it was the thing folks were 
supposed to do upon meeting a ghost. We 
were just above the springs when we stopped 
running, and there I kissed Elsie for the last 
time. As I look back on it, it was like kissing 
a living symbol and a pretty one of the life I 
wanted to lead. When we passed the house 
where I lived all the lights were lit. I imagined 
they must be having company, but I learned 
later it was because the family was excited 
over my absence; they wanted the house to 
gleam out a lamp-lit beacon through the night. 
When we reached the railroad station I peered 
through the grated window at the round clock 
above the telegrapher’s desk — it was half-past 
ten. I was surprised it was so late, never had 
time gone so fast in a life which had known 
no tedium. I said, “ Elsie, it’s half-past ten ; 


Indian Steps 


203 


isn’t it terrible; your family will be angry. I 
hope they won’t whip you.” “ Oh, that’s not 
late; I don’t mind, I’ll not be whipped. Gip- 
sies never whip their children,” said the little 
girl reassuringly. On the edge of the camp, 
braiding the tail of a big roan draft horse he 
had swapped that afternoon, stood Bill Stan- 
ley. I can see him yet, his features standing 
out bold and resolute in the glow from a 
lantern on the grass. He greeted us uncon- 
cernedly. “ Have a good time together, you 
two?” he said with a smile. “ We did,” said 
Elsie emphatically, before I had a chance to 
answer. “ We were away out in the moun- 
tains and fell asleep twice.” “ I didn’t have 
a chance to find out if I can have the pony, but 
I will know to-morrow,” I faltered. “ Oh, 
that’s all right; any time will do.” The tail- 
braiding was finished, and Stanley picked up 
the lantern, and I shook hands with him and 
with little Elsie, then we parted. I looked 
back at my sweetheart disappearing in the 
darkness. She seemed to be the life I wanted 
to lead passing away from me. A short dis- 
tance up the road I met the surrey and the 


204 


Indian Steps 


old white-bearded coachman. He recognized 
me and pulled the horse to a sudden stop. 
“ The family is about wild over your disap- 
pearance; they thought you fell in the river, 
or had been kidnapped. This is the third 
time I’ve been to that Gipsy camp since dark. 
They all said you hadn’t been there since just 
after dinner, but I wouldn’t believe them. If 
they hadn’t told me where you were this time 
I was going to get John Dyce, the constable, 
after them.” We drove the balance of the way 
in silence, but at the X-roads I could see the 
old mansion was still illuminated. I jumped 
out at the gate, and raced up the boardwalk, 
and in the front door. The family was in the 
sitting room holding a sort of council, or so 
it appeared in the lamplight. They appeared 
so glad to see me returned safe and sound they 
neglected to give me the scolding I may have 
deserved. I went to bed thinking of how I 
would go to the camp on the morrow, and 
dreamed all night about Elsie and the life I 
wanted to lead. I dreamed I had a little home 
high up in the mountains, with a view of the 
Susquehanna, and the rich farms, and of the 


Indian Steps 


205 


Alleghenies bevond, all surrounded by tall pine 
trees, and ever-echoing with the tumbling of a 
turbulent mountain rill. In the hollow close 
by was a stable filled with spotted ponies, wild 
eyed and restless, and rows of cow-boy saddles 
and Mexican bridles hung on pegs upon the 
walls. The woods were full of winding paths 
and steep ascents, dark caverns, waterfalls, and 
lonely depths. The cries of birds, the cracking 
brush caused by deer and other animals could 
be heard at my very door. When the stars 
came out and I saw the “kite” in the south- 
west, a catamount cried and hollered like a 
banshee in the recesses of the forest. Elsie 
was by my side always ; I felt the charm of her 
genial sympathy and love. I was free to come 
and go as I wanted; I was a wanderer with a 
definite purpose; I was leading the life I 
wanted to lead. And when I woke next morn- 
ing, oh, the difference, the reality of it all. The 
rain was pouring down on the porch roof, and 
the roads ran like young rivers. I was told I 
couldn’t go to the Gipsy camp, so I spent the 
day drawing pencil-sketches of spotted pony 
stallions. The next day was also rainy, and 


206 


IndianS teps 


I chafed at the bonds that kept me indoors. 
The third day dawned as bright as the morning 
when I visited the camp and met the winsome 
Elsie. As early as I could, I started for the 
ancient grove by the river side. The river 
road was rutted deep, as if a caravan had re- 
cently passed over it. My fears were aroused. 
I quickened my pace and ran part of the way. 
When I came to the rise from where I had first 
seen the picketed bay horses and the spotted 
ponies, all was deserted, empty, still. Only a 
great circular space, bare of grass, told where 
the camp had stood. The Gipsies had gone. 
And with them apparently went the life I 
wanted to lead. Heartbroken, I lingered 
around the desolated spot, and then sadly went 
home. Six years rolled around; they seemed 
as one, they went so fast. One August after- 
noon while driving from Logan ton with John 
Dyce and old George Gast, I came upon Bill 
Stanley and his Gipsy caravan. They had 
stopped to taste the waters at the Sulphur 
Spring. I climbed out of the buggy and went 
over to the hefty chieftain, held out my hand 
and said, “Don’t you remember me? I am 


Indian Steps 


207 


the young man who wanted to buy that spotted 
pony stallion when you camped over at the 
river six years ago.” Bill Stanley grasped my 
hand, and smiled, hut it was not the happy 
smile of yore. “ I surely do remember you ; 
those were good old days.” I looked around 
for Elsie, but in the medley of half-grown 
children and young people, I saw no one who 
resembled her. “ Where’s your daughter Elsie, 
now?” T inquired. The big Gipsy gazed at me 
inquiringly and then answered slowly. 
“ Elsie’s been dead these past eighteen months. 
She married one of the young lads in our 
crowd; she had a lovely baby boy, but both 
mother and child died three days afterwards. 
We were very sorry to lose her; you know 
what she was like; she was less than eighteen 
years old.” I expressed my regrets, but words 
were futile to tell the grief that was really 
mine. Her final passing to the “ great per- 
haps” had taken the last chance of my ever 
experiencing the life I wanted to lead. I 
hadn’t much to say to Bill Stanley after that. 
Sometimes I find myself powerless to converse 
— it is partly a mood without reason, but on 


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Indian Steps 


tnis occasion a sinking sense of sadness pre- 
vented my thoughts from correlating. I re- 
turned to the buggy where John Dyce and 
George Gast were engaged in a talk about the 
Spanish War with old Aaron Swartwout, who 
had followed the caravan up from Logan ton. 
I didn’t have much to say going across the 
mountains. My two companions argued war, 
politics, and religion until we reached the 
river. We stopped at the old camp-meeting 
grounds where Eliza Huntley took our tin- 
types — it was a well posed group, but I looked 
dejected and sad beside the beaming counten- 
ances of the two mountaineers. As the pic- 
ture was being made the thought was tortur- 
ing my soul, “ I will never experience the life 
that I want to lead.” And in the years that 
have passed since then I have never been able 
to lead that life, and now my thirtieth birth- 
day is behind me. Sometimes I wander down 
to what is left of the grove of old oaks 
and walnuts by the river bank and watch 
in vain for the Gipsy caravans trailing 
along on the opposite shore. Old John 
Dyce is no more, and I wish for his 


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209 


genial presence stretched out beside me on the 
green turf. The old folks tell me that Gipsies 
are getting scarce, and those who do pass up 
the valley are not a happy lot and are no 
longer carefree. The world is getting more 
circumscribed, convention is penetrating fur- 
ther and further into nature’s realm. Every- 
thing we do and say must be weighed lest it 
be disapproved by others. Even the wanderers 
and vagabonds have lost their zest for adven- 
ture, so say people who ought to know. And as 
these changes arise I feel that it becomes 
harder for me to even remember that there 
was once a time when I had an ideal of the 
life I wanted to lead. If the spirit of Elsie 
Stanley lingered among the old oaks and wal- 
nuts maybe she could show me the light, and 
the obstacles would fade away. But she is 
gone; she was the shroud of my gay, glad 
boyhood. She was the spiritual essence of my 
wanderings, of the life I wanted to lead. 


XI. 


THE HARPER 

3 were in the bar-room of the In- 
dian Queen Hotel, after the 
Derrstown races. The low- 
ceilinged room was crowded 
clear to the green-shuttered door 
which led to the lobby, and there 
were three or four lines of 
country sports of various . com- 
plexions in front of the bar. The air was thick 
with tobacco smoke, and above the roar of 
conversation could be heard the hammer of the 
heavy beer glasses and whiskey decanters. 
Sometimes through the din a few bars of a 
sweet, low-toned music was noticed; it came 
from the window-seat in the rear of the room, 
where sat an old-time harper. He would play 
a few bars when he thought he had a listener 
or two, but when they turned away to discuss 
the running race or the two-thousand-pound 
steer, he would stop, and drop his eyes rue- 
fully. Everybody was happy after the races, 
210 



Indian Steps 


211 


yet all were too keenly exuberant to care for 
music. He must have started playing and 
ceased a dozen times before the handy man with 
a pair of steps under his arm elbowed his way 
to the centre of the room and lit the hanging 
kerosene lamps. That was a signal for a con- 
siderable exodus from the room. It seemed to 
mean that supper was being served. Then the 
porter came to the door and called out that the 
’bus was ready to start for the six-ten train ; 
that made another exodus. But those who re- 
mained were the most hilarious; bookmakers, 
cattle - buyers, auctioneers, liverymen, retired 
farmers, sportive business men, and drummers, 
a motley crew, red of face, clean-shaven, jolly, 
in fact what are called “ typical Americans.” 
“ Give us a tune, daddy,” said one florid young 
fellow in a checked suit, and as the old musi 
eian touched his fingers to the strings he tossed 
a new dollar bill on the window-seat. The 
old man played conscientiously, but it would be 
hard to identify or classify the piece. It was 
a medley of many old pieces, but it was har- 
monious, and not too sad to make any one 
regret the investment of that dollar. As the 


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playing continued fresh visitors entered the 
bar and filled the gap left by the supper bri- 
gade, and the west-bound travellers. “ Every- 
body’s feeling happy to-night,” shouted the big 
colored porter as he burst into the room after 
returning from the station. Color lines were 
forgotten, and a couple of white men slapped 
him on the back and dragged him over to the 
bar for drinks. The bartenders were both 
small, short-armed men, and they were a weary 
looking pair, besieged with customers. They 
seemed to have hardly enough strength to get 
a good “ click” out of the cash register. I had 
come in the bar-room several times, the atmos- 
phere was so jovial and cheery, but I al- 
ways noticed the sad-faced old harper on the 
window-bench and the rather ornate design of 
his instrument. There was apparently room 
for two, so I went over and sat beside him, 
slipping him half a dollar, and whispering to 
him to go on with his fine music. Things 
seemed to be coming his way ; it took time for 
folks to become aware of his presence, and his 
spirits were reviving. Then a slim, long- 
haired boy with a violin under his arm came 


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in, and stationing himself in a corner, began 
violently playing the ‘'Arkansas Traveller” dur- 
ing one of the old harper’s pauses. That was 
the old man’s musical finale for the night: 
fiddle music was what the crowd wanted, es- 
pecially since he played such old favorites as 
the “ Log Cabin,” “ Leather Britches” and the 
“ Camptown Baces.” These tunes tickled 
young and old alike; and some of the men 
shuffled their feet to the measure of a dance. 
I was surprised how mildly the old harper 
accepted the fickleness of his audience, and 
endeavored to engage him in conversation, to 
learn the story of his life, which surely must 
be interesting. “ I’ve been playing this harp 
through the Pennsylvania Mountains nearly 
fifty years. I didn’t go to the war on account 
of it. I might have made a nice stake rafting 
if I hadn’t been so fond of it, but I’m bound 
I’ll stick to it to the end. I usually pick up 
some sort of musician to accompany me at 
Fair times, but I was disappointed to-night. 
1 never saw that young fiddler before, but there 
is one instrument I love as dearly as my harp, 
and that is a violin.” From such a beginning, 


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lie started on his life's story, warming up and 
becoming more confidential as the evening ad- 
vanced the general conviviality of the bar-room. 
“ I was born in the city of Camden, New Jer- 
sey, of good Quaker parentage, but I inherited 
a love of change and adventure from my grand- 
father, who was captain of a sailing vessel 
that plied between The Firth of Clyde and 
Philadelphia. I left home, but instead of go- 
ing to sea struck up country for the lumber 
woods, and worked in a large camp on Mos- 
quito Creek, in Clearfield County. Wolves 
were a-plenty in those days. It seems I can 
hear them yet fighting among themselves and 
gnawing at old bones outside the camp at night. 
We often heard a panther yelling, and one 
night the big fellow came close to camp, and 
so frightened the horses that some broke their 
halters and stampeded in the stables. I came 
down from Clearfield County on a timber raft 
in the spring of ’61. It was grand weather all 
the way, a good, swift current of clear water, 
soft, balmy air, and birds singing and trees 
budding along the shores as we drifted by. 
Mike Armstrong, our pilot, had a bad attack 


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215 


of quinsy before we left Karthaus, and despite 
the fine weather, kept growing worse. He laid 
in his bunk in our shanty, and some days we 
thought he would never come out of it. He 
became so weak that the rest of us, we were all 
very young lads, held a conference, and de- 
cided we had better tie up in some quiet eddy 
and hunt a doctor. Somewhere in the vicinity 
of McKee's Half Falls we saw a likely looking 
place. There was a tavern, The Seven Stars, 
handy, and the canal ran nearby; it ought to 
be the right locality to obtain the aid we 
needed. Mike was too far gone to object, so 
we made fast and eagerly clambered on shore. 
We went straight to the tavern, where we re- 
freshed ourselves liberally before inquiring the 
whereabouts of the doctor. The nearest one, 
we were informed, lived at Port Trevorton, a 
few miles away, and a couple of the boys hired 
a buggy and went after him. Another 
anchored for good in the tavern, while I de- 
cided to watch Mike and the raft. It was 
too stuffy in the bunk-room, so I went up on 
the tow-path and seated myself comfortably 
under an old willow tree. The warm May at- 


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mosphere was fast bringing out the leaves, 
which swayed gracefully in the gentle breezes. 
The river ran blue and majestic, and in the 
distance rose the craggy heights of Mahan- 
tango Mountain, the old “ Camel Back.” 
It was an afternoon never to be forgotten. 
The boys seemed a long time getting back 
from Port Trevorton; I suspected the taverns 
along the way were in a measure responsible, 
but it seemed a shame to leave poor Mike 
so long in misery. Several times I thought 
I would walk out to the highway and see 
if they were coming. Once I got up, and 
was about to go, when I heard a man calling 
to me from a little distance down the towpath. 
I looked and could see he was standing on the 
path opposite the front gate of a neat little 
whitewashed cottage. He could see that I did 
not hear him well, so he came up to where I 
stood, and said that he had been calling me to 
see if there was anything he could do for our 
party. I told him we had a very sick man 
on our raft, but we had sent to Port Trevorton 
for the doctor. He said that he often supplied 
raftsmen with fresh eggs, milk, and butter, and 


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217 


sometimes they boarded with him for several 
days at a time. He was a talkative fellow, and 
finally invited me to come and bring the entire 
party over to supper, free of cost, if I could 
round up my comrades. He gave his name as 
Abel Shortridge. It was almost supper time 
when the two boys returned with the doctor. 
They had been imbibing pretty freely and it 
was almost a case of the doctor doing the es- 
corting instead of the boys escorting the doc- 
tor. The boy who remained in the tavern 
came out about the same time, and when they 
were aboard the raft I extended the invitation. 
All exhibited a sudden repugnance for food, 
so I decided to go on alone as guest and repre- 
sentative of the rest. The doctor said he could 
pull Mike through in a day or two, which made 
me rest easily on that account. Abel Short- 
ridge’s home stood a hundred yards back from 
the canal, and the front yard was filled with 
good-sized cherry trees. Along the white- 
washed picket fence stood a tangle of dead sun- 
flower and artichoke stalks from the year be- 
fore. The path which led from the gate to 
the front door was lined on either side with 


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whitewashed clam-shells. A couple of large 
conks in which you could hear the roar 
of the sea if you held them to your ears, were 
on the porch. Above the door was a carefully 
carved wooden model of a three-masted 
schooner, the “ Nellie Casteel/’ Before enter- 
ing 1 was convinced that my host-to-be had 
been a sailor. Shortridge opened the door be- 
fore 1 had a chance to knock, welcoming me 
cordially. I apologized for the absence of the 
others, but he winked in a manner which 
showed that he understood. We went into 
the parlor, for supper was not quite ready, and 
I saw more nautical indications. There was 
another and even better model of the “ Nellie 
Casteel” on the mantel-shelf, under a glass 
case. There was a stuffed sea-gull and a re- 
spectable - looking violin on the centre-table. 
Some tall tropical grasses, yellow with age, 
stood in a corner. I showed considerable in- 
terest in these curios, and my host voluntarily 
informed me that he had served for eighteen 
years as able seaman on the “ Nellie Casteel,” 
which was a trading vessel sailing for South 
American ports from the Delaware. ‘ I gave 


Indian Steps 


219 


it up,’ lie said, ‘ because my daughter was get- 
ting to be such a big girl, and I wanted to be 
near her and my wife.’ But how he came to 
locate at McKee’s Half Falls he omitted to 
state. Pretty soon a bell was rung, like we 
would hear at sea, which was the signal for 
supper. We passed into the back room, where 
the table was neatly set, and Mrs. Shortridge 
and her daughter Parima, stood back of our 
chairs to wait on us. I took a good look at 
mother and daughter as I sat down. Mrs. 
Shortridge was a good-looking woman, but I 
was captivated by Parima. She was quite a 
little different and quite a little prettier than 
any girl I had ever seen. I felt sure of this; 
it was not impulse or inexperience that made 
me think so. Young as I was I had known a 
hundred girls, the last one always the prettiest, 
but this one was prettier than all the others 
combined. I was introduced by a sweeping 
gesture from Shortridge, and the two women 
seemed pleased to attend to my wants. Parima 
was especialy attentive, and I talked to her as 
much as I ate. I was also trying to discover 
why it was she was so different from other 


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girls. She was an inch or two above the av- 
erage height, slim, and golden-haired. Her 
nose had a nice arch to it, but was a trifle 
broad, and her lips were fuller than the av- 
erage. The redness of her cheeks contrasted 
with the whiteness of her skin. There was 
something particularly pleasing about her 
voice, and I concluded that this was the chief 
point of difference. I concluded afterwards that 
she was the first really refined woman I had 
ever heard speak. My mother was well-bred, but 
being a Quaker had very little to say, and I ran 
aw T ay to the woods when I was too young to 
grasp such distinctions. When supper was 
over we all went out on the porch, and watched 
the sunset and the shadows among the cherry 
trees. At dusk Shortridge and his wife ex- 
cused themselves, leaving Parima and me to- 
gether. We had become good friends, and she 
seemed to know a lot about rafts and raftsmen. 
She asked me the time, and I found it to be 
seven o’clock, ‘ That’s the time I usually go 
over and play a little music with old Daddy De 
La Grange, down at the locks.’ She went in- 
side to get the violin, and I asked if I could 


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221 


go with her, to which she assented. It was 
an exquisite evening as we walked along the 
towpath together. The robins were loath to 
go to roost, but hopped ahead of us in merry 
little companies chirping ‘ Cheerily, cheerily, 
cheer up! cheer up! cheerily!’ Why is it their 
note is so much clearer in the evening than in 
the morning? Every ten feet, it seemed, rab- 
bits would peer at us with their round black 
eyes from out the tall young grass. The dande- 
lions were as yellow as gold, as gold as the 
young growth on the willows. The air was so 
sweet and pure, the sort of air fit for Parima 
to breathe. I could not have imagined her in 
another place; the old home behind the cherry 
trees by the canal was just the setting for her 
rare, simple beauty. Old Daddy De La Grange 
lived in a tiny log cabin set in the low ground 
between canal and river. It must have been 
eternally pestered by floods, and the great 
flood of St. Patrick’s Day, 18G5, did carry it 
away. The old man, who used to be captain 
of a canal boat, was almost blind, but he still 
strummed on a harp that his grandfather had 
brought from France. Parima played the 


22 2 


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violin with much feeling ; she rendered “ The 
Queen of the May” and “ Plaisir d’Amour” 
particularly well. Old I)e La Grange accom- 
panied her as best he could; he enjoyed it, 
even though his attempts were hardly musical. 
He fished out some music, brown with age. 
They played it creditably. It was “ Le Devin 
du Village.” When it became too dark Parima 
lit a tall bronze lamp, and placed it on a chair 
on the porch. I can see them yet playing by 
the rich yellow lamp glow. The walk back was 
particularly ideal, and I waxed sentimental. 
‘ Parima/ I said, for 1 assumed that was about 
the best name to call her, ‘ it makes me sad to 
think that we must part; I never enjoyed an 
evening so much, nor met any one who appealed 
to me as much as you.’ 4 1 feel the same/ she 
answered. ‘ I don’t know whether it was the 
suddenness of your coming, the night, the 
music or what, but I feel calm and peaceful 
and happy as I never did before. You are the 
first man I ever took with me when I played 
for Daddy De La Grange; I will always think 
of you and feel you are near when I hear the 
music of that harp.’ ‘And I will always think 


Indian Steps 


223 


of you when I hear a violin.’ ‘ It’s a pity we 
aren’t masters of our fate; to think that if 
the pilot is better, to-morrow morning will find 
me floating down the river, going further and 
further from you.’ Parima answered with a 
woman’s confidence, ‘ We will surely meet 
again. It cannot be we met to-night for noth- 
ing.’ ‘ Fate is not making fools of us,’ I said ; 
‘ there has not been anything flippant in our 
association. We have acted towards one an- 
other as if we had been close friends since 
earliest childhood.’ Our hearts became too 
full to sav much more, but I held her close, 
and kissed her deeply and lovingly, squarely 
and in the corners of her mouth before we 
parted in the yard beneath the cherry trees. 
Used as I was to hardships and rough associ- 
ations, my better nature had won the victory 
to-night, and there were tears in my eyes as 
I went out the gate and hurried along the tow- 
path towards the eddy where the raft lay 
moored in the moonlight. The river was with- 
out a ripple, and on it was mirrored the craggy 
height of Mahan tango Mountain. I wanted 
Mike to get well, yet I hated to leave Parima. 


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I was shocked at myself when I caught myself 
secretly hoping that he would remain sick a 
few days longer, so we could not get started. 
But there were small hopes of that; all was 
dark in the shanty ; if he was worse the doctor 
or a watcher would have been on hand. It was 
hard to get to sleep ; the spirit of Parima which 
I had absorbed so freely, surrounded me, and 
I could not sink into the elements of uncon- 
sciousness. I was keenly awake and alive. I 
got to sleep shortly before daybreak, but was 
soon routed out, and joined the crew in casting 
off our moorings. Mike was better, but too 
weak to take much part. As we drifted out 
into the deep water, and were opposite 
Parima’s home, I looked to see if she could 
be standing in the yard under the cherry trees. 
But she was not there; either she was sleeping 
late or had household duties which kept her 
inside. T watched the little cottage and its 
trees until it was out of sight. Now I know it is 
bad luck to watch anything out of sight, let 
alone a cherished object. As the day pro- 
gressed I could not join in the merry songs of 
the raftsmen. The day was clear and we made 


Indian Steps 


225 


good headway, but there was an aching sad- 
ness in my heart. When we reached York we 
split our raft into sections and went through 
the canal to the Delaware, where we were 
towed to Camden. I was within a quarter 
mile of my old home, but as I was estranged 
from my parents, made no effort to visit them. 
There were times when I felt like seeking a 
reconciliation just to tell my mother about 
Parima. I had dreaded to make a confidante 
of any of the boys on the raft; I imagined 
them to be built on less sentimental lines; I 
feared they would only laugh at me. But 
human nature is pretty much the same; the 
emotions that we imagine are ours solely, be- 
long in common to the race. I took a position 
in a large lumber yard on the Philadelphia side 
of the river, but I was restless and unhappy 
thinking about Parima. I had not arranged 
to write, as I hardly knew my destination, and 
that made me feel she was further away. I 
could see her playing for old Daddy De La 
Grange, and the aged man strumming as best 
he could on the harp. I could see her clasped 
in my arms, in the grove of cherry trees; I 


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felt the sensations which bit me like a knife as 
I kissed her squarely and in the corners of her 
beautiful mouth. Why was I sorting boards 
for a pittance while Parima was up there in the 
river country leading an idyllic existence. 
Then I thought that other rafts might tie up 
in the eddy and some other raftsman, young 
and impressionable like myself, might make 
her forget my solitary appearance in her life. 
I began to think I knew what my successful 
rival would look like; I pictured him taller 
and of a more commanding presence. I wasn’t 
tall, but was broad and well-muscled, yet I in- 
stinctively felt that absence makes the heart 
grow fainter — with some. I consoled myself 
at times by thinking her affection for me was 
her first and most spontaneous love. It took 
me two months before I had gotten together 
enough money to pay my debts and have a 
purse large enough to quit my position and 
start for the river country. There is no more 
delicious sensation in the world than travelling 
to see your love in summertime, unless it is 
travelling to see her in the springtime. To 
save time I would go by train to Liverpool and 


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embark on Daddy Inch’s ferry at the foot of 
Mahantango Mountain for the west bank, and 
walk up the lane to Parima’s modest home by 
the towpath. Never did I feel my senses so 
acute as when I alighted from the train at 
Liverpool Station. Before me glistened the 
river in the afternoon sun, with the tall brick 
warehouse, the hotels and iron works of the 
town clearly apparent on the opposite shore. 
Beyond the town were the graceful outlines 
of the partly wooded, partly cultivated hills 
of Perry County. Behind me loomed the 
craggy height of Mahantango Mountain, the 
old “ Camel Back,” bold, ragged, unscaleable, 
its pine-crested summit nearly a thousand 
feet above the stream. The oaks on its 
loAver levels were swaying in the summer 
breeze; I could hear a blue jay calling some- 
where in the wilderness. I Stopped to take a 
drink at the old well across the track from 
the station ; never had water tasted so sweet. 
I went down the bank to where the ferry-boat 
was tied up and which soon began its crossing 
of the river. The water was low, and many 
jagged rocks reared their heads out of the cur- 


Indian Steps 


228 


rent, slimy and black as sea lions. I felt a 
sort of nervous apprehension as I toiled up the 
dusty road from the slip to the main street. 
Idlers were seated on the balcony-porch of the 
Owens Hotel overlooking the river, dream- 
ing upon the grand scenery of water and moun- 
tain and sipping their mead. Some were in 
uniform, for it was war times. Contentment 
was in their faces, but it was not in mine. I 
walked along the street, under the cool shade of 
the maple trees until the town resolved itself 
from brick fronts to disjointed shanties, and 
then I climbed down the bank and followed the 
tow-path towards Parima’s home. Only two 
months had passed; everything must be as I 
had left it. But nothing would dull my over- 
consciousness, my sense of nervous apprehen- 
sion. I passed old Daddy De La Grange’s 
cabin near the locks; it seemed strangely 
quiet. Why did the old man keep the door 
and windows closed this warm afternoon? 
Further up the path I met some robins; they 
seemed just as gay as they did the evening 
I walked to Daddy De La Grange’s with 
Pariraa. And they were still singing their 


Indian Steps 


229 


even-song, ‘ cheerily , cheerily , cheer up , cheer 
up, cheerily.’ As I neared Parima’s dwelling 
I heard the ‘ click, click, click, click’ of an axe, 
followed by the ‘ swish, swish’ sound of a tree 
falling through summer foliage. The noise 
came from the front yard. Why were they 
cutting down those fine old cherry trees? 
Presently I noticed a diminutive Irishman 
with bushy red whiskers and dressed in a 
baggy soldier suit trimming the gnarled trunk 
of the tree that had last fallen. He saluted 
me in military fashion, and I returned the 
greeting. ‘ How’s it come Abel Shortridge’s 
cutting down his trees ?’ I called to him. 1 He 
doesn’t live here any more; he left here under 
mysterious circumstances nearly two months 
ago. I’m home from the army on a furlough. 
I’ve bought the place. I’m cleaning things up 
a bit.’ Resting his axe against a cherry log 
he came over to where I stood by the gate. He 
proceeded to tell me how Shortridge had come 
into the locality a total stranger the year be- 
fore, and arranged the purchase of the house 
and thirty five acres from the Widow Schreck- 
engast. He had not paid the first installment, 


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but stripped the place of its fruit, and cut 
three hundred ties in the grove on the hill. In 
addition he had run up bills at all the local 
stores, and borrowed money on all sides. When 
his creditors threatened to close in on him, he 
packed up his belongings and one night dis- 
appeared with his family in the direction of 
the mountains. He was sure that it was in 
the direction of the mountains, as a farmer 
who lived back of Middleburg had told him he 
saw two wagons loaded with household goods 
passing his house at daybreak early in May. 
Efforts had been made to locate him, but thus 
far were unavailing. ‘ The Widow Schrecken- 
gast is out her fruit crop, three hundred white 
oak ties, and her earnest money.’ ‘ While I,’ 
added the Irishman, proudly, 6 paid her fifty 
dollars cash on account the day I took over the 
property.’ But like his predecessor he was a 
despoiler, for the cherry trees were falling to 
suit his idea of possession. I was dum- 
founded; my loss was so great I could not 
speak. I could not rally myself with the 
thought that I would surely find Parima. I 
looked pale, and the Irishman presumed I was 


Indian Steps 


231 


fatigued, and invited me to remain to supper. 
He was the sole support of an aged mother, 
who was very unhappy over the thought that 
he would have to return to the Army of Poto- 
mac in another week, as his ‘ sick leave’ had 
almost expired. I was persuaded to remain 
over night, and I’m very glad I did so. Next 
morning I helped the soldier cut up the cherry 
trees, and made myself generally useful. After 
dinner he asked me if I would like to ‘ come 
down the tow-path a ways to attend the sale 
of old Daddy De La Grange’s goods.’ ‘ Daddy 
De La Grange dead?’ I said in amazement. I 
could hardly credit this other change which 
had occurred in so short a time. 1 He surely 
is,’ replied the soldier. ‘ He’s been dead now 
over a month.’ We went to the sale, finding 
a large crowd of people grouped about the old 
cabin. The household furnishings and cook- 
ing utensils were practically given away. The 
garden tools brought the best prices. The last 
article to be sold was the French harp. Some 
one bid fifty cents, and it hung there for sev- 
eral minutes until I raised it to one dollar. I 
got the harp, the one tangible memento of my 


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evening’s romance with Parima. Everybody 
laughed when they saw me try to carry it away. 
It stands five feet eight inches, my own height. 
The auctioneer kindly found me the straps that 
went with it in a cupboard over the fireplace, 
so I was now equipped to go forth as a 
travelling mountebank. As I lay hold of the 
straps this idea crystallized itself in my brain, 
‘ I’ll use the harp to find Parima.’ That’s how 
I became a harper, away back in August, 1861. 
When I told the Irish soldier my intentions he 
said, ‘ Cut the harp into kindling and come 
back with me to the army; they have great 
need of bright, stocky young chaps like you.’ 
I was firm to my purpose, and the next morn- 
ing, w r hen 1 saw a peddler’s wagon draw up in 
front of the house, made a bargain with the 
Yankee to take me as far as Middleburg. There 
I found a harvest dance in progress at the 
hotel, and was pressed into service with three 
other musicians to make a quartet. I never 
played a harp before in my life, but I under- 
stood harmony, so T got through the night with- 
out being unduly criticized. Some said they 
liked the harp music best of all. I can’t see 


Indian Steps 


233 


how that could be, unless the spirit of old 
Daddy De La Grange had followed me and 
guided my fingers. After that night I was a 
harper on faith, and practiced day and night. 
I don’t know what method I used, whether the 
old man’s or my own invention, but I took to 
harp-playing as if by inspiration. When I 
wasn’t practising I was inquiring about for 
news of the missing Shortridge family. I lo- 
cated the farmer who saw them pass his house 
at daybreak; he lived on the road to Hartley 
Hall. I went there, and spent several even- 
ings in the tavern amusing the landlord with 
my music. He said he had never heard any- 
thing like it before. From there I travelled 
to New Berlin, as I heard of a strange family 
coming into the neighborhood. It was a false 
lead, and I followed it and others into the 
valleys and back to the mountains again. I 
was becoming proficient with my music. My 
soul was in it, its melody was perforce sweet. 
It was Fair time when I landed in Hunters- 
burg, where I fell in with the musicians I had 
met at Middleburg. We played every night in 
the hotels, and the night after the Fair closed, 


234 


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furnished music for a ball in the agricultural 
building. I went from there to the fairs or 
patriotic celebrations at Derrs town, Jersey 
Shore, Hughesville, Youngmanstown and other 
places, playing for thousands of people, some- 
times in the open air. Many women heard me, 
but there was no sign of Parima Shortridge 
among them. Verily, she must be hidden in 
some mountain fastness. I vowed I would 
find her, and no labor was too severe to bring 
me into some new locality where I had not 
previously visited. Once on the Caledonia 
Pike T heard of a young woman who answered 
the description of Parima and who played a 
violin. She lived in a remote farm-house, a 
mile oft* the highroad. It was dusk when I 
arrived outside the lonely, weather-beaten 
house. The dogs barked hoarsely, the peepers 
were beginning their choruses in the swamp. 
I set down my harp, and struck on it, with all 
the intensity of a soul that has met its com- 
plement, the first bars of ‘ Le Devin du Village.’ 
The door opened, and a flood of lamplight fell 
upon me. I beheld several figures advancing 


Indian Steps 


235 


towards me. I shaded my eyes with my hand. 
First there was an old man, then an old woman, 
then a young woman — but she was not Parima. 
k Does any one play the violin here?’ I inquired, 
hoping against hope that Parima, although not 
at the door, might be an inmate of the house- 
hold. ‘Yes, I do. Why V replied the young 
woman who stood before me. She was not 
Parima; she looked nothing like her. We 
spent a pleasant evening, out in that desolate 
farmhouse, she with violin, I with harp, while 
outside the peepers chorused and the dogs 
howled. But there was an emptiness in my 
heart when I crawled into the bed in the cold 
spare-room, and hid deep under the many- 
colored quilts. That night more than ever I 
consecrated my soul to the soul of Parima. 
Year after year I have sought her, but in vain. 
But I have been happier with her spirit in my 
heart, than with the physical possession of 
other women. I found my ideal in her; I have 
never noticed another woman, because none 
could attain her standard. I suppose I will 
go on wandering to the end, working a little, 


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and dreaming much; dreaming visions so vast 
and of such an expansive plane of happiness 
that I have often said to myself that through 
Parima I have touched the joys of the infinite.” 


XII. 


IN THE BLOCKHOUSE COUNTRY 

AND of beech, and maple, land 
of hemlock, pine and laurel. 
Land of streams, waterfalls and 
springs. Land where the wild 
pigeons, harassed on all sides, 
left last. The pigeon shot near 
Linden, in 1890, was a straggler. 
from the Blockhouse Country. 
Land of beauty inexhaustible that even the 
woodsman’s axe or the fire in the slashings 
cannot destroy. And above all, to me, a land 
of precious memories, where I felt emotion 
quickened in the blossoming-tiine of youth, that 
years have not quenched nor separation dulled. 
The deepest accents in my life were struck 
there, in the Blockhouse Country. It was on 
a sketching tour that I went there first, nearly 
twelve years ago. Though I was in the 
country for nearly a w r eek, the only attempt I 
made was to reproduce the face of Svlvania, 

Sylvania Micheley. It was the finding of my 

237 



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old sketch-book, while hunting for some news- 
paper clippings in one of the drawers of the 
writing table in my study, and gazing on the 
poorly reproduced features of Sylvania, that 
led me to revisit the Blockhouse Country last 
August, partly to live over again old memories, 
partly to try and rediscover Sylvania. But why 
was Sylvania such a potent factor in my life? 
It was because she embodied my ideal of 
beauty and loveliness. In the years since I 
had seen her, many beautiful women crossed 
my path, but none more beautiful than she. 
And, strangely enough, when I admired a 
beautiful woman, she always looked like Syl- 
vania. Not that she was a common type; but 
there are certain fundamental principles in 
beauty, which all women must possess whom 
we, supposedly civilized beings, call beautiful. 
But to go back nearly twelve years; I had 
long been fascinated by seeing on the maps of 
Pennsylvania a village called Nauvoo. It 
thrilled me because it was the same name as 
that Mormon city in Illinois where the founda- 
tions were laid for a temple, said by a Keveal- 
ing Angel to be the exact dimensions of the 


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Temple of King Solomon, but which was never 
built, because unsympathetic Gentiles drove 
the Mormons pell-mell across the river into 
Missouri. In like manner the name Nauvoo 
came to be the symbol of the dimensions of 
what would be to me true happiness, but never, 
like in the case of the Mormons, to get further 
than the building of the foundations. It was 
daybreak when I left the Riverside Hotel at 
English Town, and wended my way along the 
plank-road, with my thoughts centered on dis- 
tant Nauvoo, which was to be my ultimate des- 
tination. On my back I carried a light knap- 
sack, containing my paints and sketching ma- 
terials. I very seldom bothered the colors, but 
sometimes tried to amuse my hospitable hosts 
in the lumber-camps by my work with the 
pencils. Never was a morning so crisp and clear 
as when I wandered up the plank-road. Little 
Pine Creek, and further on Blockhouse Run, 
were tumbling amber-colored and sun-jewelled, 
over the rocks, and singing a cheerful morning 
song. Bob whites, and an occasional robin, 
interpolated their tuneful solos into nature’s 
concerto. And I felt as happy as the swaying 


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birches, the streams, the birds, the clear air, 
or the cloudless sky. I had never known what 
unhappiness or disappointment were. I had 
never been sick a day; I was free to indulge 
my sensitive wandering nature. Providence had 
given me a keen appreciation of the glory of 
the world, of the joy of living; I was able to 
embrace happiness, and not have to regard it 
as something always in the future. As I walked 
I would sing snatches of the choruses of the 
popular songs of the day, “At a Georgia Camp- 
meeting,” “ Lou, Lou, How I Love My Lou,” 
“ Mammy’s Little Alabama Coon,” or “ I’ve 
Waited, Honey, Waited Long For You.” I 
was in no hurry; I wanted to draw a picture 
or two, and when I got ready to stop for mid- 
day dinner there were plenty of lumber camps 
to accommodate me. For these reasons, I sat 
down on the bridges across the creeks several 
times, listening to the water’s melodies, and 
watching the yellow butterflies, or following 
with my eyes the line of some tall, evergreen- 
covered peak to its seemingly inaccessible pin- 
nacle. On my way I passed several camps; I 
could see the women in the kitchens; the chil- 



A TYPICAL PENNSYLVANIA LUMBER CAMP 








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dren were playing on the shanty steps, the pigs 
were wallowing in dilapidated corners of the 
corduroy road. On the hillsides the men were 
peeling bark; sometimes the wheeze of the 
cross-cut saws or the click of the axes stole to 
my ears through the forest silence. Some places 
the road ran through the forest; in others, 
through where it had been cut away, leaving 
nothing but the ruins of abandoned camps and 
stables, and the endless graveyard of hemlock 
stumps six feet high, an arboreal Pere Lachaise. 
Coming from one of these open stretches where 
the sun now shone hot, 1 entered a space where 
the tall white-hemlocks and beeches formed a 
canopy across the road. I was admiring the 
giant trees, when something made me look to 
the left, down in a little hollow, where a young 
girl was filling a tin milk-bucket at a spring. 
She glanced up at the same minute, to me 
standing in patent admiration on the corduroy 
road. Then she leaned down again, and filled 
her bucket. There was something so lithe, so 
fawn-like, so graceful in the line of her waist 
and hips as she stooped and rose, that I in- 
stinctively liked her before I had gotten a good 


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look at her face. When I saw her face, I 
realized she was the most beautiful girl I had 
ever seen. The bucket was heavy, and she was 
slight, so she gladly consented to my carrying 
it to the camp, the buildings of which were only 
a hundred yards away. I kept looking at her 
so hard, that I recall she asked me if I had 
ever seen her before. I felt like saying, “ Yes, 
but not in this incarnation,” for at that time 
I thought I had found wisdom in Theosophy, 
and was reading Col. Olcott’s “ Old Diary 
Leaves.” Now, I believe we have everything in 
this one life; we must find or lose happiness 
in the few brief years that are allotted to us. 
But truly she was beautiful. It was a type of 
beauty I had never seen before, but was des- 
tined to meet several times since. Maybe, I 
have often thought, she left such an impression 
on my retina that in seeing beautiful women 
I have always first seen her. Every beautiful 
woman resembles some famous painting and 
she looked like Greuze’s “ Morning Prayer.” 
I asked her name, for she seemed natural and 
genial, and she told me that it was Sylvania 
Micheley. The last name meant little to me 


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then — now I know it is most distinguished, a 
corruption of the French name of Michelet, a 
house that has produced an historian, a phil- 
osopher, a general and a poet. Sylvania, too, 
was an odd name, but she was named for the 
woods where she spent most of her life. Though 
she was very slight, she could not be called 
thin, and in her shoes, she told me, she stood 
five feet six. Her light, or ash-brown hair was 
inclined to be curly, and she wore it very full 
at the sides, and in a net at her neck. Her 
eyes were deep and grey, with black lashes and 
brows; her complexion was pale. Her lips 
were full, and when she smiled, which was 
seldom, it showed that her little white teeth 
were set rather far apart. Her mouth de- 
scended at the corners, an odd twist for a girl 
of her age; there was something bitter, or sad 
about it, something I could not understand. 
I was fond of asking ages, and when I told her 
I was eighteen the previous February, she said 
that she would be the same age in the coming 
December. Her nose, and I have been always 
a great admirer of noses, was straight, and 
Greek, but the nostrils were moulded round 


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rather than long. Her hands were very white, 
hut the nails were worn short from kitchen 
work, and her hands ought to have been red for 
the same reason, but weren’t because her spirit 
was too white. Such was Sylvania Micheley as 
we walked along the moist corduroy road side 
by side that clear August morning, under the 
canopy of white-hemlocks and beeches. When 
we reached the tall steps which led from the 
road to the shanties which stood on the hill- 
side, I asked her if I could remain for dinner. 
She said that travellers often stopped there; 
that they never turned any one away. Several 
times I detected that she was eyeing me as 
curiously as I had her ; evidently I seemed like 
a strange brand of young man. I accompanied 
her to the door of the kitchen, where she intro- 
duced me to her mother, a woman of much 
darker complexion and stronger build. I told 
her where I had come from, and we happened 
to have mutual friends at Waterville and Eng- 
lish Town. This assured my welcome. I 
talked with mother and daughter pleasantly, 
until I saw they were getting too busy ; then I 
sat on the kitchen steps until dinner was ready, 


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and washed in the same tin basin with the 
bark-peelers. They all gazed on me with curi- 
osity; it was not me they were eyeing, it was 
the knapsack I carried ; what my trade, rather 
than who was I, was the mystery. But the 
boys were a good lot, the meal was jolly, and 
the cooking good. After it was over Mrs. 
Micheley introduced me to Jimmy Barto, the 
jobber, who invited me to remain at camp as 
long as I pleased. I asked him jokingly, if 
he would have any work for me, but he looked 
at my medium height and slight figure, and re- 
plied that barbering or kitchen-work would be 
about the only things I could do. I must con- 
fess kitchen-work would have appealed to me 
on this occasion, if I could work near Sylvan ia. 
“ No,” I told him, “ Fm taking a walking trip 
through the mountains, and want to paint a 
little picture of some pretty scenery.” When 
he left me, to follow the crew back to the 
bark-slides, I found Sylvania sitting alone on 
the kitchen-steps, which were now in the shade. 
It was easy to become acquainted with her; I 
wondered why at the time, for I was backward 
with most girls. I know now; it was because, 


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like myself, she was serious-minded. There 
was and always will be a barrier between me 
and the frivolous. I have too much Quaker 
blood to ever skim lightly over life’s surface. 
I talked to her of myself. That was a fault I 
had when I was very young — now I like to 
listen, for I learn much more, and can come 
into deeper sympathy with people when I do. 
But it was just as well that I talked about 
myself on this occasion. I was a stranger, and 
it gave her a better opportunity to form an 
opinion of me, or my pretenses. But I was 
not boastful; I had done nothing in life; but 
I liked to talk of what I hoped to do. “ Some 
day I want to own the 6 Gazette and Bulletin’ 
in Williamsport,” was one of the things I told 
her. Perhaps, if 1 had been less bubbling over 
with my own hopes and desires, Sylvania would 
have said more about herself on that first inter- 
view. She was quiet and sympathetic, and the 
hours raced by, until Mrs. Micheley, fresh from 
her afternoon nap, appeared in the doorway, to 
tell Sylvania to go to the spring for another 
pail of water. She beamed down on me in a 
way which made me believe she approved of 


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me or else regarded me as harmless. In those 
very youthful days we regarded the parental 
smile or frown as the deciding factor in a 
romance. Sylvania and I went to the spring 
together. When we got to it we sat there ten 
minutes chatting before we filled the bucket. 
The time spent in her society was rapture. I 
could not get enough of it. Supper was even 
a jollier meal than dinner. A couple of the 
boys knew some of my friends in Jersey Shore. 
That strengthened my footing at the camp, for 
being so shy by nature, I must feel at home, 
else I could not tarry anywhere. After supper 
I waited in the lobby until Sylvania took 
her place on the kitchen - steps ; she made a 
pretty picture there, with her white hands 
clasping her knees, thoughtful and wistful, 
gazing at the setting sun whose crimson efful- 
gence shone through a fringe of dead hemlocks 
on the opposite mountain top, as if Old Sol 
was peering through prison bars; for wasn’t 
Old Sol to be shut up in darkness until the 
next dawn would release him ? I suggested we 
go for a walk. That is the inevitable thing to 
do in country localities where parlors are un- 


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comfortable and conveyances slack, but it is a 
very helpful thing, as it promotes closer ac- 
quaintance, and propinquity to love is God. 
We took a long walk, along the road that led 
in the direction of Davison’s Tavern at the foot 
of the Packsaddle, towards Buttonwood, to- 
wards Nauvoo. Of course, I told her of Nauvoo, 
the still-born Mormon metropolis, and how I 
wondered if this little hamlet in the hills might 
possess a single similar attribute. And then 
it became dusk, and it became dark. Angels 
of love which during the day follow behind us, 
in the darkness march on in front. In the 
forest depths they barred my way; I stopped 
walking and told Sylvania how much I loved 
her. That was the happiest moment of my 
life. Sylvania did not say much, but she made 
no effort to turn back. After a while we came 
to a slashing, and saw the new moon for the 
first time that night. Ever since I have al- 
ways associated the first phase of the new moon 
with the night that I declared my love to 
Sylvania. There was no hurry to go back to 
camp; her mother was a heavy sleeper, she 
said, and this was the first happy night she had 


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spent in two years. I asked lier wliy, but she 
would give no further information. But other 
than on this subject she would talk frankly, 
was sincere and interested. I carried a watch 
in those days, but I would not look at it; I 
wanted to feel “ out of space, out of time” on 
that rarest of nights. When we finally said 
good night, the moon was gone, and the air was 
cold. She might have gotten indoors and into 
bed without rousing her mother had it not 
been for the little watchdog, a weird-looking 
mongrel which, chained to his barrel, set up a 
raucous barking, as we ascended the tall steps 
to the kitchen. As she closed the door I could 
hear a voice, choking and half asleep, saying, 
“ Sylvania, is that you ? Where have you been ? 
Is it morning?” This worried me, as I was 
afraid the mother would henceforward view 
me with disfavor. I remained on the porch 
of the lobby all night. I did not want to 
rouse the boys, and make them think I had 
been “skylarking” with Sylvania, and when I 
met them by the wash-basin at dawn they con- 
gratulated me on being an early riser. At 
breakfast Sylvania looked natural enough, and 


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her mother gracious, hence I had given myself 
unnecessary concern. That day, and that 
night, and the next and the next, I spent with 
Sylvania, at least when she was not occupied 
with her household duties. I thought I knew 
her pretty well by the fourth night, and the 
new moon kept nodding to me to “ go ahead,” 
giving me fresh courage. In our walk we 
neared Pat Daly’s camp, a half-mile up the 
road. We could hear a chorus of woodsmen 
singing, “ Mammy’s Little Alabama Coon” and 
“ My Hannah Lady” ; Sylvania shuddered. 
“ Don’t let’s go any further,” she said, so we 
turned off and followed a trail-road which led 
down to the creek. On the opposite bank was 
a skid-way of hemlock logs, which looked, in 
the moonlight, all the world like some huge 
mausoleum of my hopes. In story-books lovers 
during the course of a stroll in the woods often 
sit down on stumps, but such would be im- 
possible in many parts of the bark-woods 
nearly twelve years ago. The stumps were 
six feet high, and chopped up to points, better 
suited as perches for jays and kingfishers than 
for human beings. But we must sit down, so 


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I got a couple of rounds of freshly peeled bark, 
placed it under an old birch and there we sat. 
and threshed out our love-story. I had told 
Sylvania many times that I loved her, since 
the stroll on my first night at the camp. The 
second night she had told me that she felt for 
me something that she had never experienced 
for any other man ; in short, she must love me. 
By the third night she said she was sure she 
loved me, and to-night, why couldn’t I tell her 
out and out that there was only one thing for 
us to do, and that was get married, as soon as 
I could arrange means to properly support her. 
In those days I had only finished my Sopho- 
more year at college. Well, she was in my 
arms, and one can easily imagine how it feels 
to hold the most beautiful icoman in the world 
in one’s arms, and have her perfectly content. 
Sensations like this ought to last forever, in- 
stead of generally occurring but once, and 
never coming again — anyhow, with that par- 
ticular most beautiful woman. I asked her if 
she would marry me, and said I could surely 
make her happy/ She hesitated a moment, and 
then answered, “ I know, Herndon, dear, you 


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could make me happy, but I would never marry 
you.” It was then and there that the mam- 
moth pile of hemlock logs across the creek be- 
gan to look more than ever like a mausoleum. 
1 asked her how it would be possible to feel 
that I could make her happy, and yet not want 
to marry me. It seemed like a paradox. “ It 
is because I love you more than I could any 
other man that T would not marry you,” was 
her reply to this. An even greater paradox. 
But I did not lose heart, but kept on question- 
ing. Why should I lose heart when she rested 
so willingly in my arms? 1 thought at first it 
was because I was a city youth and she a moun- 
tain girl that she feared she would not be able 
to accustom herself to the changed surround- 
ings. But that was not tenable, as she was 
refined, she was elegant, she was young and 
adaptable. The simple manly way would have 
been to accept her decision, and spend the bal- 
ance of the evening discussing general subjects 
— and next morning departed the camp. But 
here was a paradox; Sylvania declared she 
loved me; she acted as if she did, yet would 
not marry me. Lovers were the original ene- 


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mies of mystery. They Avant to fight their 
battles by the light of day, even if they do 
most of their wooing in the dark. Sylvania’s 
nature was genial and frank. She could not 
be like some women, and become taciturn and 
stubborn when pressed for a reason. And 
finally, when the young moon, fearing that 
perhaps he was becoming “ third party,” 
abruptly dipped out of sight behind the moun- 
tain, Sylvania told me her story. “ Two years 
ago this month,” she began, “ Mother was run- 
ning a camp for Mr. Barto at Hunter’s Lake, 
about a mile from the summer resort. None 
of us liked it much, because the boarders were 
always coming over and watching us and tak- 
ing snap-shots of the boys as they peeled the 
bark. They seemed to think there was some- 
thing wonderful about the sight of a lumber- 
ing operation, but we didn’t. The party who 
owned the timberland had a beautiful summer 
cottage on the shore of the lake. Why he 
wanted the timber cut we couldn’t understand, 
as he was said to be a wealthy business man in 
Williamsport. One afternoon a young fellow 
from his home town — I’ll tell you his name, but 


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keep it dark — the son of one of his cousin’s, 
came up on a bicycle. It was counted a re- 
markable trip, as the roads were rough and the 
distance thirty miles. He was a good-looking 
boy, and looked fine in his tweed cycling cos- 
tume. The next morning the land-owner 
brought him over to call, and he admired me 
just as you did, and we soon became good 
friends. He was my first love, I thought, and 
it seemed very romantic to have a well-dressed, 
handsome city boy paying attentions to me. 
Even then I w r as proud, and never could care 
for an ordinary man. I encouraged him, and 
he took advantage of it. His proposal of mar- 
riage came in due season, and I accepted him. 
He said he was young, a college student, and 
must get the consent of his parents, who were 
wealthy and aristocratic, before the engage- 
ment was announced. But he said we would 
surely be married some time. I believed him, 
and loved him more every time I saw him. He 
had a fine voice, and one night when the moon 
was shining brightly took me for a row on 
the lake and sang those same songs we heard 
at Daly’s camp down the road. I was par- 


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ticularly captivated with him when he sang, 
and the moon, which is a deceiver, nodded to 
me that it was all right. I was in his arms, 
and he took advantage of me, and I, silly, love- 
sick, trusting fool, yielded to him in my happi- 
ness. He was with me every night and we 
were very happy together until early in Sep- 
tember, when he left abruptly for Williams- 
port. He was to write me, but I never heard 
a word. I wrote to him, but it did no good. 
T became anxious and feared he was sick, so 
one afternoon when I met the land-owner on the 
road, I asked him about the young fellow. 
Evidently he had been watching our love-affair, 
or my manner evidenced too much concern, for 
he turned sharply and said, 6 See here, Miss 
Micheley, I am surprised you don’t know how 
things stand; you must quit putting any store 
in that boy; he’s got lots of girls wherever he 
goes, and they mean nothing to him after once 
he leaves them.’ That was enough; I saw I 
had been deceived. I wandered, dazed, far 
into the woods, and lay beside a log weeping 
for hours. But I was always proud, and I 
bathed my eyes in the lake, and braced up and 


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went home and helped get supper as if nothing 
had happened. Mother noticed my red eyes, 
but thought I was merely grieving over the 
separation from my lover. After supper I 
wrote him what I had heard, and made one 
last appeal to his sense of honor and manhood. 
I think it was a strong letter, even though I 
was only sixteen when I wrote it. I waited for 
a reply and got none. Yet I felt that he would 
some day come to his senses and return. At 
Christmas time, when we were busy packing 
up our things to move our camps from Hunter’s 
Lake into the Blockhouse Country, mother 
handed me a large square envelope, when I 
came in to get dinner. T opened it; I stared 
at it in amazement; my blood stood still; it 
was the engraved announcement of the young 
fellow’s marriage to some girl at Carlisle, 
where he attended school. I learned after- 
wards he had been engaged to her the entire 
time he was going with me. But he had ruined 
me; I will never be the same again. If I 
married you, the shadow of that duplicitous 
boy would always be between us. You could 
not get it out of your mind that he was my 


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first love and that I had been too much in 
love and weak and, perhaps, loved him still. 
I know your nature, sensitive, introspective, 
and imaginative. Sooner or later his shadow 
would have obscured our love. Even if you 
never felt that way, others would tell you about 
me, with the same result. We all must marry, 
I don't deny that, but when I come to do it, it 
will be to a person of a coarser sort, who will 
confuse my past in a cloud of his own indiscre- 
tions. 1 could not have married you and kept 
the truth from you; I love you too much.” 
Here Sylvania buried her curly head in my 
breast and sobbed pitifully. “ I will marry 
you anyhow, Sylvania,” I said, “ You have been 
frank and honest about your past; I’m sure 
that shadow would have no lodgment in our 
home. I love you too much to ever deepen 
those lines of sadness in the corners of your 
mouth.” And I kissed the drooping, wistful 
corners of her mouth. “ My aim will be to 
make you happy, and to forget.” “ No, no,” 
sobbed Sylvania, “It can never be; there is a 
physical barrier to our happiness; I will al- 
ways love you, but I can never be your wife; I 


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love you too much.” There were birds chirp- 
ing in the tree-tops; another day would soon 
begin. Eeluctantly we wended our way back 
to the camps, Sylvania leaning heavily on my 
arm. As we neared the buildings the watch- 
dog remained silent. “ It is good-bye, but not 
for always,” I said when I left her at the top of 
the tall steps. “ We may meet and love again,” 
said Sylvania. I kissed her long and deeply 
on her tear-dimmed eyes ; I squeezed her white 
hands before we parted. As she shut the door 
I could hear a muffled voice inside, the voice of 
her mother, “ Where have you been, Sylvania? 
Is it morning?” Sadly I slipped into the 
bunk-room and secured my knap sack without 
waking anybody and started out along the 
corduroy road. In the grey half-light before 
dawn I must have seemed a spectre to the mon- 
grel watchdogs chained to their barrels at the 
camps I passed, for they eyed me savagely, their 
hair raised on edge, but not one barked. I was 
too deep in sorrow to be human. At daylight 
I was in front of Davison’s Tavern, at the foot 
of the Packsaddle. I did not want any break- 
fast. I did not care to push on to Nauvoo. I 


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wanted to get out of the Blockhouse Country, 
land of indestructible beauty and sadness. I 
climbed the steep hill in the face of the rising 
sun, and as I wandered along the broad plateau 
in the beechwoods before descending into the 
Gray’s Bun region, the wood-robins jauntily 
displaying their pied breasts, like pigmy sport- 
ing men with gay vests, were beginning their 
carolling, like tiny silver bells, the requiem of 
my happiness. I had never been unhappy be- 
fore, and this unhappiness coming so soon after 
and so closely allied to my great elation in 
knowing Sylvania made me feel that sorrow 
is only the hither side of joy. And Sylvania, 
at this minute, she was probably at the spring 
filling the water bucket — in the Blockhouse 
Country. 


XIII. 


SHADOWS 

DID not see her the first time I 
passed through the car. The 
red-cap porter who had charge 
of my traps went on ahead and 
deposited them in the Elmira 
car, so I hurried after him to 
bring him back. When we re- 
turned to the Lock Haven car 
all the seats by the windows were taken and I 
had to crowd in beside an old lady whose 
suitcase was so large that there was hardly 
room for her feet. I looked through the win- 
dow as best I could ; it was an overcast day ; on 
the hill I could see the Insane Asylum with its 
Grecian columns, and in the distance the First 
Mountain appeared scarcely darker than the 
mist. Then I began to look at my fellow 
travellers. I always liked to “ size them up,” 
before the train started, giving them names, 
occupations, and missions, and if I could guess 

at what stations they would get off. The car 
260 



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263 


was so crowded bv the time for starting, that 
several men with loaded market baskets — it 
was Saturday afternoon — were standing in 
the aisle. As I scanned each face, old ladies in 
black, be-spectacled and bonneted, aged war 
veterans, with bronze Grand Army buttons in 
their coat lapels, horse-traders, travelling men, 
country sports, workmen, young mothers, 
babies, young girls and boys, I noticed the well- 
dressed figure of a woman in the middle- 
twenties wearing a modified peach-basket hat, 
who sat by the window on one of the seats 
across the aisle, but near the front of the car. 
Beside her sat a very fat woman. I would 
have extended my vision from her, had it not 
been that her pale brown or ash-colored hair 
was so decidedly curly ; crispy like spun sugar. 
Where had I seen hair like that before? Yes, 
I knew two or three women that had it, but 
they couldn’t be here, travelling on an after- 
noon local from Harrisburg. And then some- 
thing told me “ it must be Sylvania from the 
Blockhouse Country.” I looked more care- 
fully; she was very well gotten up. She had 
a black dotted veil thrown over her hat, which 


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was of the latest pattern. In her ears were 
long black jet earrings, also up to date. She 
wore a dark blue suit, jauntily and daintily 
cut. “ She has Sylvania’s spun-sugar hair, and 
poise of the head and neck, but by this time 
Sylvania would be twenty-eight, and broken 
by work, while this woman doesn’t look twenty- 
two and bears the stamp of a life of leisure, 
yes luxury.” But I was determined to in- 
vestigate. I reached into my overcoat pocket, 
took out my tin drinking cup, and sauntered 
up the aisle to the water-cooler. I had a drink 
of the grimy water, and started back to my 
seat. I looked hard at the well-groomed 
beauty; she eyed me intently, but neither of 
us spoke. I passed on, and took my seat, but 
I felt most uneasy. At Dauphin the stout 
woman got out, and seized with a fresh de- 
termination, I walked to the vacant seat, and 
spoke to the fair lady by the window. “ Isn’t 
this Miss Sylvania Micheley?” I inquired. In- 
stantly she smiled, but what a sad smile it was ; 
time had touched her not at all except that she 
was even paler and it had deepened the down- 
ward curves in the corners of her mouth. 


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“ Yes, I used to be Sylvania Micheley, now I’m 
Mrs. Noah Creamer; you’re Herndon Levering, 
of course.” That was who I am, so I sat down 
in the vacant seat, and felt so much at home, 
that I also moved my overcoat and suitcase. 
“ You certainly look well, Sylvania ; you haven’t 
changed a bit, though it will be twelve years 
next August when we last met. You have been 
well-treated, no doubt, but 1 don’t like to see 
those lines of sadness in the corners of your 
mouth.” “Oh, Herndon,” she said, “ haven’t you 
forgotten those lines? I never noticed them be- 
fore you called my attention to them; but I 
always thought of you every time I saw them 
in the looking-glass.” “ Never mind,” I said, 
“ they add, rather than detract, from your 
looks; they do to any one who likes a serious 
expression as 1 do, and you are just as young- 
looking and pretty and nice as ever.” “ Thank 
you so very much, Herndon. I love kind 
words. I think you look just the same as you 
did, now that I’ve had a good look at you, 
except that you’ve taken on weight, and are 
doing, what’s a strange thing for you, trying 
to be fashionable by growing a mustache. I 


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was sure it was .you, but I hated to speak. On 
this occasion I felt it was 4 up to you’.” “ It 
is peculiar I never heard of you directly or in- 
directly in all these years,” I continued. “ I 
frequently did think of you, and last summer 
took a walking tour through the Blockhouse 
Country, moved by some perverse desire, to 
try and locate you. There isn’t a camp left 
from the mouth of Blockhouse to its head; all 
the timber is gone and nobody knew where the 
old jobbers and crews had gone. They would 
be as hard to trace as the trees they cut and 
the bark they peeled.” “ Well, I’ve heard of 
you once in a while,” said Sylvania ; “ I’ve read 
about your books and your trips, and some- 
times, years ago, wondered why you never 
dropped me a line — the old postmaster at But- 
tonwood could have found me.” “ That’s too 
bad,” I said ; “ I felt you didn’t want to hear 
from me; our parting was so peculiar it 
seemed best we kept our distance.” “And yet,” 
broke in Sylvania, “ your last words were, ‘ It’s 
good-bye, but not for always.’” “And yours 
were,” said I, quickly, ‘ We may meet and love 
again.’ My words were a prophecy, that is 


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265 


now fulfilled; I hope yours will be the same.” 
There was a pause; we both said nothing for 
several minutes but sat watching the crowds 
filing out of the car at Millersburg. Sylvania 
recommenced the conversation. “ You went 
into the newspaper business, as you said you 
would, but you never got the 4 Gazette and 
Bulletin/ that prophecy was in the right 
church but the wrong pew!” I had to laugh 
at this. From now on the talk became more 
personal, but being older I said little about 
myself. I was anxious to learn what had been 
the soul’s progress of Sylvania since we parted 
nearly twelve years ago. Gradually I learned 
what I wanted; despite her valiant efforts to 
right the early wrong in her life, her sincere 
aims to procure happiness for herself and hus- 
band, she was far from happy. Hence the 
lines in the corners of her mouth had grown 
deeper. For two years after we had parted in 
the Blockhouse Country very little had trans- 
pired with her. Many men had admired her, 
but she had felt no inclination towards any of 
them. She had often thought of me, but never 
once regretted her decision not to marry me. 


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Three years after she had met me, when she 
was in her twenty -first year, her mother had 
charge of the shanties in one of the camps on 
Gray's Run, a lumber region which had just 
been opened. One of the jobbers was a young 
fellow, who had recently inherited a small for- 
tune. He wasn’t good looking, nor was he 
well-educated or intelligent; he was the 
“ coarser sort” of man for whom she had been 
looking. He fancied her the first time he saw 
her — every man did that; he had been enough 
in the cities to know a good-looking girl when 
he saw one, and here was one prettier than he 
had ever seen even in a show. “As far as the 
‘ coarser sort’ part went he was surely my 
ideal,” continued Sylvania. “All that he had 
done in his life up to the time he met me was 
to have been expelled from a couple of board- 
ing schools, been drunk on a number of occa- 
sions, and inherited some money at the death 
of his father. He was attempting to carry on 
the old gentleman’s lumber business, but mak- 
ing an awful mess of things. He used to ride 
around through the woods on horseback, on an 
expensive cow-boy saddle, imagining himself a 
Napoleon of the bark business.” From this 


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Sylvania went on to say, with a tinge of bitter- 
ness ill repressed, how he had made love to her, 
and she, thinking it best to marry and get a 
home for her mother as well as herself, con- 
sented. But first she told him of how she had 
been deceived in her early youth by a suave, 
well-dressed bicyclist from Williamsport, who 
had deserted her and married another girl. 
She also told him how she had thought best 
not to marry a reputable young man (meaning 
me) two years later because of her past. Up 
to this point she had been frank with him, but 
she concealed the fact that she was accepting 
the young jobber because she thought him 
coarse enough never to “ throw up” the story 
of her early dishonor; he had sinned against 
women himself many times and his wife’s fail- 
ings would be overlooked in his burden of in- 
famy. But this was flimsy philosophy; the 
coarse man is the very one who remembers 
these things. He has nothing else to think 
about. Twelve years ago I was too inexperi- 
enced to reason this out, but now I knew it to 
be a fact. I knew the rest of the story, just 
as if I had heard it before, but out of sincere 
interest I listened until she recited it. All 


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went well the first year of the marriage, the 
young husband was proud of his exceptionally 
beautiful wife. He took her to Philadelphia, 
Atlantic City, and even St. Augustine. Rela- 
tives in his home town and in Wilkes-Barre 
and Harrisburg entertained in their honor. 
Sylvania took kindly to society folks, and her 
good looks made her sought afier as a guest 
at parties, church fairs, and gatherings of all 
kinds. Really she was beginning to feel happy, 
for the first time in five years, since the days 
of her early mishap. But the novelty of a 
pretty wife began to wear off with the husband 
after the first year’s round of gaiety. It first 
evidenced itself in petty criticisms of her ap- 
pearance and manners after they came home 
from parties. A little later it came out in the 
form of jealousy, she danced too many times 
with this man, or walked too long on the 
piazzas with that one. At heart serious-minded 
she didn’t care a whit for society, she only tried 
to be popular to please her husband, so she 

declined to attend any more functions. This 
* 

made the husband furious, his friends would 
say his wife was “ queer,” he couldn’t stand for 


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269 


that. During these excitements he resumed 
his old drinking habits, and when in his cups 
became abusive. First he had criticized her 
appearance, then he swore at her for going out 
too much and staying in too often. It looked 
as if his moral character was on the “ down- 
go,” especially as his business was in a critical 
state, and creditors would have carried off 
everything had not his mother helped him on 
divers occasions. “ Finally the climax came, 
the one that I thought would occur if I mar- 
ried you, but which I am now certain would 
have descended on me no matter whom I had 
married. I was to suffer for my indiscretion, 
there was no escape for it on this earth. I was 
cornered by inexorable retribution; physical 
sin demands a physical punishment.” Thus 
did Sylvania reach the critical part of her his- 
tory. It appeared that one day she had gone 
to the main street to do some shopping, and was 
on her way home carrying a couple of bundles, 
when out of a hardware store emerged the 
dapper figure of a young man. Their eyes met, 
it was the dashing bicyclist who had been 
her undoing six years before. If she could 


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do it over again she would have quickly looked 
straight ahead, and gone her way, but she was 
flustered, and when he bowed she did likewise. 
His manners were so easy and ingratiating that 
she forgot the past while he plied her with 
pleasant questions and praised her appearance. 
Before she knew what she was doing she 
handed him her bundles and he started to es- 
cort her to her home. When within half a 
square of the old mansard roofed residence the 
thought flashed through her mind that her hus- 
band knew the young fellow by name and by 
sight, and if he laid eyes on him the worst 
might happen. But she did not have courage 
to tell the youth that her husband was aware 
of her old-time relations with him, and with 
face blanched and tongue thick she let him 
accompany her to the gate. As she was swing- 
ing the iron gate open she saw her husband 
coming around the side of the house. He had 
been working in the flower-beds in the yard, 
was coatless and hatless, and dirty; the well- 
dressed young escort probably took him for 
the hired man. For some reason he wanted to 
linger and talk about the past, but Sylvania 


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271 


could see by her husband’s expression that 
trouble was imminent, so she turned from him 
abruptly and ran up the concrete walk to the 
house. The infuriated husband was after her, 
and once inside slammed the door with such a 
savage bang that it shattered the colored 
glasses in the toplight. lie grabbed her by the 
throat with the fury of a demon, before she 
had a chance to explain things, and was faint- 
ing when he released her. He called her every 
vile name he could conjure up, accusing her of 
secret meetings with her old lover, and threat- 
ening to throw her out of doors. But later he 
relented, not because he was sorry, but he said 
he did not want his friends to know he was 
married to an “ erring wife.” From that time 
on her life was torture, and her nervous system 
collapsed under the strain, and she was in 
doctors’ hands for weeks. When she got a 
little better, the coarse husband permitted her 
10 go on a visit to one of his married sisters 
who lived in Harrisburg. She did not want to 
go overly much, but it was a relief to get away 
from the tyrant. Even after her illness she 
could not induce him to believe that her meet- 


Indian Steps 


27 1 


ing with the handsome youth was only an acci- 
dent; he was accusatory and insulting up to 
the moment of her departure on the trip. The 
sister treated her well, and she was now feel- 
ing considerably better, though she dreaded the 
thought of going back to the house which had 
ceased to be a home. Her voice was choked 
with grief, just as it was the night I left her 
in the Blockhouse Country, nearly twelve years 
ago. She pulled down her veil so that her 
fellow travellers could not see her tears. I ex- 
pressed my sympathy, and the desire to help 
her if I could, for it seemed a shame to see one 
so young and so beautiful in such a despondent 
state. “ The excellent resolves of youth de- 
served a better reward,” I told her. As I said 
this, the brakeman was calling out “ Selins- 
grove Junction, change for Selinsgrove,” and 
Sylvania began getting together her traps as 
she was to leave me at Sunbury. “ You’ll have 
a chance to see my husband; he’s arranged to 
meet me at the station; but don’t wave to me 
or he’ll think there were more sinister episodes 
in my past. I have often thought you would 
have been considerate to me; even with your 


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sensitive nature you could have forgotten the 
past effectively. One only grows wise with 
years. It’s too late now, but think of me often, 
and wish me well. It will do me good. I need 
your sympathy, I need your love, even at a 
distance. I see no hope ahead, if I got a 
divorce where would I go? I would be alone 
and lost, for my mother died three years ago.” 
I clasped her gloved hand, for the train was 
now crossing Shamokin Creek, and whispered 
to her, “ It’s good-bye, but not for always ; we 
will surely meet and love again.” “ I know we 
will ; you are my only hope,” said Sylvania, as 
she picked up her satchel and started towards 
the door. There was a crowd in the aisle so she 
had to stand a couple of minutes after the train 
had stopped. She looked straight ahead as if 
she knew no one on board. I crossed the 
aisle and gazed through the car-window, 
and on the platform selected as the husband 
a man who was eagerly watching for some 
one. I would have known him in a thou- 
sand, only in a thousand there would surely 
be several hundred such individuals; he 
was no rare type. Tall and angular, clean- 


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shaven, about thirty-five years old, he wore a 
flashy brown suit, tan shoes, and had a brown 
felt hat pulled over his eyes. He wore glasses, 
had a muddy complexion from smoking too 
much — in his hand was the inevitable cigarette 
— his nose was broad and hooked, his lips were 
thick, and chin receding. While studying this 
ill-favored being, Sylvania had descended from 
the car, and he ran forward and kissed her 
ostentatiously. Then he grabbed her satchel, 
and stuck the cigarette in his crooked teeth. 
I watched the pair as they walked along the 
platform to where a big red automobile was 
waiting. The husband’s mother was evidently 
very generous. As she got in I fancied her 
eyes met mine, and I repeated to myself like a 
litany, “ We will surely meet and love again.” 
All the rest of the journey was a blank to me — 
I could not tell you where the sun set, or where 
the afterglow shone ruddiest on the river. All 
I could think of was Sylvania, Sylvania whom 
I had known and loved in the Blockhouse 
Country and whom I had met once more. 


XIV. 


WHEN GHOSTS WALK 

EVEKAL weeks after parting 
from Sylvania, in the Block- 
house Country, I was wandering 
aimlessly along the boardwalk 
at Atlantic City, looking in the 
shop windows. In the window 
of a jewelry and novelty store I 
saw a small silver box with the 
it. It was such a curious little 
box, and the twist of the initial so unusual that 
I went inside and priced it. To price anything 
in an Atlantic City shop is equivalent to buy 
ing it, so eager and alert are the attendants to 
make sales. I had to buy the trinket, and I 
was not sorry, as my thoughts were so full of 
Sylvania, that anything bearing her initial, or 
anything remotely pertaining to her, interested 
me to a marked degree. The next question 
was, what to do with the box; it might come 
in handy for postage stamps, or even cuff links, 

but it should have a more mystic purpose, a 

275 


S 



initial 8 . on 


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purpose more intimately connected with Syl- 
vania. That night as I was admiring it for 
the last time before turning off the electric 
light, I felt that the box should contain a lock 
of Sylvania’s hair. Why had I omitted ask- 
ing her for a lock the night we parted ? It was 
rank stupidity on my part — nothing more. In 
my pocket I carried a small knife which had a 
pair of scissors in it; I could easily have 
snipped off a lock, with her permission, of 
course, of her ash blonde hair, hair that re- 
sembled spun-sugar more than tresses. But 
we had parted, probably never to meet again, 
at least not for years. I had let this golden 
opportunity slip by. Now that I had a silver 
box in which the lock could have been kept I 
felt the lack most keenly. If I couldn’t put 
Svlvania’s hair in it, the purpose for which the 
bauble was clearly intended by its maker, noth- 
ing else should go in it, no stamps, nor coins, 
nor cuff links, not even the hair of any other 
girl, fair or dark. The box must remain empty 
unless it fulfilled its especial mission in the 
world of life inanimate. For years I kept the 
box on my bureau, empty and useless, but al- 


Indian Steps 


277 


ways looking new. Freshly engaged servants 
would speedily notice and polish it. Surely it 
had a long dynasty of good friends. Some- 
times I took it with me on trips; more than 
once it crossed the continent and the Atlantic 
Ocean. I had a feeling that some day I might 
meet Sylvania again, would snip the lock, and 
quickly put it in the receptacle which had 
awaited it so long. With every succeeding 
year the chance of seeing Sylvania seemed to 
grow less. I had travelled repeatedly through 
the section of country she must frequent, often 
asked about her, but there was a conspiracy 
of silence. Several times I relegated the box 
to closets and desk-drawers as a relic of a 
too by-gone age, but the freshly engaged ser- 
vants would periodically resurrect it and install 
it in state on my bureau. By these acts I felt it 
deserved its right to exhibition, so molested 
it no more. 1 had seen it so much that it 
meant nothing to me when I looked at it; no 
old nor sad memories were evoked by its pres- 
ence. It had become a fixture like the bureau 
on which it rested. But I had gotten out of 
the habit of taking it on trips. It might stay 


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on my bureau at home as much as it pleased, 
but I would have none of it on my journey ings. 
Then one afternoon I met Sylvania on the train 
travelling up the Susquehanna Valley, and a 
rush of memories, sentimental, grave, and re- 
proachful, engulfed me like a spring flood in 
a marshland. When she left the train at Sun- 
bury I felt for her much the same adoration as 
I had when I left her in the Blockhouse 
Country nearly twelve years before. As the 
train bore me on through the gathering dark- 
ness my thoughts were alone of her. Nothing 
else in life mattered, it seemed. I had eyes 
and thoughts only for that slender figure, that 
round, still babyish face, that mass of ash 
blonde hair more like spun-sugar than tresses. 
When the train stopped at Loyalsock and I 
tried to gaze out at the steel-colored, swiftly 
running river, the thought flashed through me, 
“ Why didn’t I get a lock of Sylvania’s hair?” 
After twelve years another chance had come, 
but I had forgotten. I know she would have 
let me have it as a keepsake. It might have 
looked strange to be seen cutting a lock of 
hair off a young woman in a crowded car, but 


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279 


if I was to have the lock I could have stood 
the cynosure of the multitude without a 
quaver. “ Oh, why hadn’t I gotten that lock 
of hair?” I might not see her again in twelve 
years, maybe never. I had possibly missed 
my last chance. I turned in my seat in nerv- 
ous indignation. I blamed myself inwardly 
and outwardly, but it was too late. When I 
reached my destination I was not in as happy a 
mood as I might have been. But I put on a 
brave exterior. I had gotten along fairly well 
for twelve years without having seen Sylvania 
or reaped the benefits of possessing a lock of 
her hair. I could doubtless get along just as 
well for the next twelve. If men can lose by 
death beloved and dutiful wives and yet sur- 
vive and often marry again, why couldn’t I 
pass over an unimportant episode with some 
one I knew at best but superficially. But what 
the acquaintance lacked in years it made up in 
intensity. But what of that? Hot fires burn 
out just as surely as do slow ones. When the 
time came to retire I went into the old, high- 
ceilinged room and lit the lamp. I loved to 
smell the odor of the oil-suffused wick, the old- 


280 


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fashioned smell of the room, that aroma of old 
books, old pictures, old furniture. When I be- 
gan to unpack the suitcase, I found, to my 
surprise, the servant had put the silver box in 
it. 1 put it on the bureau. The window was 
half open, and the rival love-songs of the 
peepers floated in, buoyant, invigorating. With 
them came the bouquet that the pine woods 
give off at night, and no other time. There is 
a night world and a day world. There are 
some nights replete with night lights, night 
scents, night sounds, night life, that I prefer 
to any day. I always prefer the night in a 
haunted room. In this room I had seen many 
ghosts. After I put out the light I could hear 
a train of coal cars plugging away up the 
valley. I could imagine I saw the headlight 
mingling with the filmy smoke in the night, the 
red glare from the fire-box, the vast, heavy, 
sullen “ battleships’’ following complain- 
ingly behind. It was too early in the season 
to hear the first whip-poor-will. April twenty- 
seventh has been the fixed date annually for 
its opening concert in this locality these many 
years. It was even a little early for the trill- 


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281 


in g frog-songs. The coal train chugged, 
chugged, chugged; fainter and fainter it be- 
came. Sleep claimed me and I was glad to go. 
My dreams took up where I had left Sylvania. 
We were still travelling together, up the valley, 
in the gathering darkness. I was complaining 
that the train travelled too fast. Even in the 
dream I had the terror of a parting. My life 
had known too many of these. Sylvania was 
saying that I should have a memento of her to 
remember her by when we would be no longer 
together. She suggested, mind you it was she 
who suggested it, in this dream that I should 
cut off a lock of her crisp, spun-sugar hair. I 
drew out my knife and opened the scissors. I 
began to cut — her hair seemed as stiff as wire. 
My scissors were bending with the strain. Why 
couldn’t I cut off that hair? I made a final 
valiant effort; the hair did not cut, but I was 
awake, alone. I could hear the train of “ bat- 
tleships” no longer; all was silent in the dark 
world outside. The room was inky black; I 
couldn’t even make out the lines of the giant 
walnut wardrobe in one corner or the black 
marble fireplace opposite the bed. With my 


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right hand I reached out convulsively, and 
grasped — something, smooth, soft, like spun- 
sugar. I rubbed it between my fingers ; 
it couldn’t be spun-sugar, it was a lock of 
hair. “ I am still dreaming, and wide 
awake; what a psychological phenomenon!” 
Still holding the lock of hair, or whatever 
it was, I sat up in bed. I was surely 
awake, but what was in my hand. I got 
out of bed, and found the bureau. My left 
hand touched something cold ; it was the silver 
box. In one hand I held a lock of hair, in the 
other the silver box, and my thoughts were of 
Sylvania. I groped further with my left hand, 
and found some matches. I struck a match 
and held the lock of hair, or whatever it was, 
up to the light. It was a lock of hair. Before 
the match burned out I could see that it was 
ash-gold in color, and curly and crispy like 
spun-sugar. It was Sylvania’s hair. How did 
I get it to-night? By what prank of fate had 
it come into my room? Perhaps she had cut 
it off intending to give it to some one — who? — 
and it had gotten into my coat pocket, and 
fallen from it on the bed. Perhaps Sylvania 


Indian Steps 


283 


Wad been searching for the missing lock all 
evening. Determined to make sure, I lit a 
candle, and held the little bunch of hair before 
the calm, soft, affectionate light. Candle- 
light never lies ; it is cozy, and betrays no con- 
fidences. If I knew anything at all about it, 
the hair I held in my hand was Sylvania’s; it 
couldn’t be any one’s else. By fair means or 
foul it had come into my possession; I would 
cherish and defend it come what may. I looked 
around the ghostly old room to make sure I 
was still awake. There was the rackety four- 
poster with quilts in disarray which I had just 
quitted, the ponderous walnut wardrobe in the 
corner, the pictures on the walls in their cir- 
cular frames, the round tables laden with 
musty books, the heavy walnut chairs, the 
black-marble fireplace with the busts of Byron 
and Tom Moore on either side of the antique 
gilt clock on the mantel-shelf. In the mirror 
of the bureau 1 could see myself, the same face 
witji dishevelled, curly hair I knew so well. 
In my hand I held a bunch of tresses, tresses in 
texture like spun-sugar. I took up the little 
silver box with the letter 8 . on the lid, and 


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opened it. From it came an odor, the smell 
of the ancient forests in the Blockhouse 
Country. I carefully laid the lock of hair in 
it, and closed it again. After a wait of nearly 
twelve years the little box had come to its own. 
Everything is possible to him who will wait, 
and watch. Now when I travel I always take 
the little box with me. When I am home I. 
give strict orders that no one will touch it, and 
that means no one must open it. It would 
make me happy but for the fear that some day 
the lock of spun-sugar hair will disappear as 
mysteriously as it came. I have just run over 
to the bureau and looked before finishing this 
story. It is still there. The story is not in 
vain. I hope it will remain inviolate unti 1 
Sylvania shall cross my path again, and I com- 
pare it with her hair, and beg an explanation. 


THE CLOSED HOUSE 


N the back street at Straubstown, 
on the lane next to the moun- 
tain, half hidden by wide- 
branching sugar maples stands 
a neatly painted white house. 
As all the houses on this street 
are frequently painted, in fact 
all the houses in the town reek 
with fresh paint, this neatly finished cottage 
would attract slight attention were it not that 
the shutters are always closed. When the 
painters come around every other year to give 
the house a new coat of white and the shutters 
a new coat of blue, the orders are that the 
shutters must be painted on the house and with- 
out opening them. The house is also noticeable 
from the numbers of little wooden birdhouses 
on the trees. These are always repainted when 
the house is done over. They are inhabited by 
a swarm of robins, bluebirds, and martens, who 

make the air sweet by their singing. Several 

285 



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Indian Steps 


elderly ladies occupy the cottage, so the village 
gossips say, but the one who owns it is never 
seen outside the confines of her own room. 
Grief over the death of her husband in the 
Civil War is the cause ascribed by her relatives 
and loyal friends for her complete retirement 
from the world. This is a beautiful idea, and 
places a halo of saintly devotion around the 
old lady whom no one has seen in nearly fifty 
years. But there are other people in the town 
who say that an unfortunate love affair taking 
place two years after the death of the soldier 
husband is the real reason why she became a 
recluse. One old man, who keeps the grave- 
yard in order, is very fond of telling the story 
to strangers, lie can see the closed house from 
where he works among the graves and monu- 
ments. After he has pointed out the graves of 
Indian fighters and revolutionary soldiers, or 
of the woman who was buried just outside the 
cemetery fence in 1804 because she was said to 
be a witch, he will indicate with his sickle, the 
closed house. After the visitor has observed it 
for a minute he invariably says, “ What do you 
think of that house yonder?” If you give him 


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287 


the slightest encouragement by saying, “ Isn’t 
it queer-looking!” he will relate the story with 
as much precision of detail as a guide on a 
battlefield. The story generally runs like this : 
I say “ generally runs like this” because the old 
man has told it in my hearing four or five 
times, with amazingly little variation. “ You 
see that neatly painted house down the street? 
The lady who lives there has never been out 
of doors in forty-eight years, and the shutters, 
except to have new slats put on occasionally, 
haven’t been opened in that time. People 
around here like to say that she went into re- 
tirement because she lost her husband, who 
was a gallant young officer, in the Civil War. 
The young fellow was killed in 1862, and I can 
take oath on it that the shutters were open for 
over two years after that, until Christmas Eve, 
1864. It isn’t that our townspeople have 
flexible memories, but there are very few alive 
to-day who were old enough to understand 
much as far back as ’62. Those that were 
know in their hearts what I say is true, but 
they don’t like to spread a scandal, so wink at 
the ‘ dead husband’ story. When she was mar 


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ried in October, 1860, this lady was accounted 
the belle of the village. She was also the 
wealthiest girl, as she had inherited three for- 
tunes from bachelor uncles who died, and was 
the heiress of her parents, who were both in- 
dependently rich. The young man she married 
was a college graduate, a promising law stud- 
ent, and also heir to considerable property. It 
was uniting the two oldest and most influential 
families in town, representatives of the old 
Scotch-Irish Presbyterian autocracy. The 
general run of people were pleased, but there 
was considerable envy aroused. I remember 
it well, as many thought the couple too well 
blessed. They had good looks, money, family, 
friends. Some of those who envied lacked all 
four qualities. One old woman, who had talked 
a lot before the wedding, was standing outside 
the church after the ceremony, and ran up and 
wished them bad luck all their lives. The 
town constable put his hand over her mouth 
before she had gotten the words fully out, and 
many thought the happy couple did not hear it 
at all. At least so most everybody hoped. The 
wedding took place on a rainy day, a bad omen 


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generally admitted by educated and unedu 
cated alike. During the wedding trip which 
was taken in an elaborate carriage drawn by 
two coal black horses, and driven by a colored 
coachman in livery, the bride’s father had the 
cottage renovated, refurnished, and repainted. 
He planted those maple trees in the front yard 
and along the sidewalk, that Chinese sumach 
by the kitchen door and those two honey- 
locusts along the garden fence. He also set out 
a Norway spruce; it grew higher than the 
house, but was blown down on the fortieth 
anniversary of the husband’s death. They say 
it almost shocked the lady to death ; she wasn’t 
used to such loud noises. Young as he was, 
the bridegroom took an active part in politics 
and would have been nominated for the Legis- 
lature if he hadn’t gone to the war. In 1861, 
before the outcome of the w r ar was generally 
conceded, he showed his patriotism by enlist- 
ing. His father could have gotten him a com- 
mission at Harrisburg, but he preferred going 
as a common private. But his appearance 
w r as so much above the ordinary, that he was 
soon singled out for a lieutenancy, and by the 


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beginning of 1862, he was a captain of artillery 
on the Peninsula. He was highly commended 
on several occasions, though he didn’t seem to 
have done much fighting. But the town was 
proud of him. He held the highest rank of any 
soldier who had gone to the front from this 
locality, so there was talk of presenting him 
with a sword when he came home on a furlough. 
A subscription was being taken up when news 
came of his untimely death, caused by the 
bursting of a cannon during a practice drill. 
Beport had it, he had been blown to pieces. I 
guess it was true, for they never opened the 
coffin. We had to take for granted his remains 
were in it. The burgess sent somebody to 
Philadelphia in a hurry and a handsome sword 
was bought. This was draped with crepe and 
flowers and laid on the coffin. After the in- 
terment it was given to the widow. The widow 
certainly showed a terrible amount of grief. 
The old woman who had wished them bad luck 
when they came out of the church after the 
wedding was on hand in the same place at the 
funeral. She tried to whisper to every one 
how she had predicted the disaster. She be 


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came so boisterous that the same town constable 
had to lead her around to the back of the 
church and keep her there until after the ser- 
vices. Her ugly talk created more comment in 
the village than the ostentatious funeral. 
Every one said she was a witch and was a dis- 
grace to the town. A month after the funeral 
the old woman died, and in the natural course 
of events would have been buried in this grave- 
yard. The parents of the dead soldier and of 
his widow, although of a different denomin- 
ation, had enough influence to block this. When 
it was rumored she was to be buried after 
night in the Potter’s Field at the Poor Farm, 
some of the working class of people got to- 
gether, and induced the old German who owned 
the cow-pasture by the cemetery to permit her 
burial there, just across the graveyard fence. 
Now the cow-pasture is pretty well built up 
and it won’t be long before somebody’s cellar 
will occupy the spot where this so-called witch’s 
bones repose. Poor old creature, I wonder if 
she was in any way responsible for the ill-luck 
that followed the couple she cursed! The 
soldier’s widow went on living very quietly in 


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her neat cottage. I saw her many times work- 
ing with her flower-beds, or sitting knitting on 
the back porch. People, even those who once 
envied, pitied her now. She seemed so single- 
minded, so devoted to her husband's memory. 
She had an iron settee put near his grave in 
the Presbyterian burial-ground and often sat 
there on Sunday afternoons. It was a touch- 
ing sight. But grief alone was not to be the 
limit of her ill-fortune. One night in October, 
1864, a carriage stopped in front of the cottage. 
A strongly built man, with a closely-cropped 
beard turning grey, got out. The colored 
driver handed him a heavy portmanteau, and 
drove away. Owing to the mud on the car- 
riage, it had evidently come a long distance, 
we surmised it to be a livery rig from another 
county. The stranger, so the story goes, in- 
troduced himself to the widow, and said he had 
been chaplain of the regiment to which her late 
husband belonged. He had been the last per- 
son to speak to him before he had been blown 
to atoms by a bursting cannon. He had ad- 
mired the dead officer, and wanted to express 
to the widow the esteem in which he had been 


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held by his companions in arms. All this 
pleased her, especially as she had reached a 
point when she was not insensible to masculine 
charms. Those who saw the stranger said he 
was not bad looking, and while he could look 
one in the eye, he had a downcast look. This 
was ascribed to the noble melancholy which 
overspread his rare soul. He was such an in- 
teresting gentleman that he was invited to re- 
main over night, and that led to his being urged 
to stay a few days longer. Then he apparently 
fell ill, and was in a critical state for days. 
The fair young widow nursed him and the old 
doctor, while declaring he couldn’t make out 
the nature of the disease from which the man 
suffered, said he had never witnessed such de- 
votion. It was the week before Christmas be- 
fore the patient was able to be about the house. 
He had had many sympathizers, among people 
who never saw him, as he had his fond nurse 
give instructions he was to see no one but the 
doctor. His identity was the subject of con- 
siderable speculation, but of a favorable 
nature, until a young soldier returned who 
had served in the alleged chaplain’s regiment. 


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‘ Your old chaplain’s in town ; he’s sick at the 
widow’s cottage on Freedom Street.’ The 
young private was much surprised. ‘ We have 
no old chaplain; the one we have now is the 
same one we’ve always had.’ To make sure he 
wrote to a friend, who replied that the chap- 
lain was there and had been on duty daily. He 
couldn’t be sick at Straubstown and on duty on 
the Peninsula at the same time. It was not 
a case of bi-location. The real chaplain was a 
tall blonde and the one sick in Straubstown 
was a stockily built brunette. The story of 
the mysterious invalid got to the ears of the 
Federal authorities and detectives were sent 
to investigate. It was probably the first and 
last time the detectives ever visited Straubs- 
town. On the morning before Christmas the 
widow sent out a dozen little notes written in 
the copper-plate handwriting so popular in 
those days, announcing to her intimate friends 
that she was going to marry the estimable army 
chaplain, and inviting them to come to the 
house that evening to meet him. Her rela- 
tives, more particularly, and her friends were 
shocked, but as she was twenty-five years old 


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they considered her old enough to suit herself. 
About a dozen persons dropped in that even- 
ing to meet the k intended.’ Some called out 
of regard for the bride-to-be, the rest out of 
cold curiosity. The young widow, dressed in 
white, looked very happy. The stranger was 
clerical enough in appearance to suit anyone. 
He had shaved off his mustache, and wore 
only a grayish beard. He looked all the world 
like a Methodist hierarch, although he claimed 
to be a Congregation alist. He could tell 
many stories of his work among sick and dying 
soldiers. He even told how President Lincoln 
once complimented him for his kind deeds. 
As he talked his fiancee gazed at him in speech- 
less admiration. Cakes, candies, fruit, and 
coffee were passed around later in the evening. 
The future bride played the organ while the 
churchly-looking intended sang patriotic airs 
and hymns. In the midst of this song festival 
there was a loud pounding on the side door. 
The stranger stopped singing, and his face, al- 
ways waxy pale, grew even whiter. The young 
widow jumped up from the bench and ran to 
the door, opening it. Before the company 


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stood six stalwart men, calm, slow of speech, 
determined. Their leader stepped forward, 
and in the presence of the roomful of guests 
placed the stranger under arrest. The bride- 
to-be swooned over a sofa, while some of the 
men tried to induce the visitors to tell who 
they were and on what grounds they made the 
arrest. One guest, a former district attorney 
of the county, had more influence than the rest, 
so one of them told him the facts. The in- 
truders were deputy U. S. marshals and de- 
tectives. The pretending army chaplain was 
none other than Ludwig, the notorious moun- 
tain outlaw, wanted on a couple of dozen 
charges ranging from murder and counter- 
feiting, down to chicken stealing. With his 
side-partner Consor, he had terrorized the Cen- 
tral Pennsylvania mountains for twenty years. 
In October they had been brought to bay in 
the Seven Mountains by a posse and Consor 
was killed. Ludwig with his proverbial luck 
had made his escape, but it was thought that 
he, too, had been shot, and crawled into his 
lair and died. As nothing had been heard of 
him for nearly two months, he was counted as 


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dead, until the presence of a mysterious 
stranger in Straubstown answering his de- 
scription had been reported. He had some- 
times worn a beard in the past, so was easily 
recognized under his ministerial disguise. He 
was hurried to Pittsburg and ultimately 
hanged. The young widow, shorn of her hopes, 
and humiliated before friends and the town, 
took brain fever and came near dying. The 
same doctor attended her who had looked after 
the ‘ sick preacher/ but in this instance was 
never in doubt as to the diagnosis. When she 
was so low, all the shutters were ordered 
closed. After she got better she directed that 
they be left closed. This was done, and her 
voluntary captivity began. Her parents tried 
their best to get her to go out for a walk, but 
they could do nothing with her. She vowed 
she would never show her face again outside; 
she who had been so proud, but had been so 
mocked by Fate. The old woman who wished 
her ill was dead; those who envied her were 
now genuinely sorry; there were many who 
loved her; she had no one to fear in all 
Straubstown. But indoors she remained, 


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growing waxy -white, silent, severe, resembling 
so her servants state, the strange man she once 
agreed to marry. But they also say that her 
soldier husband’s sword hangs over the mantel- 
shelf.” 


XVI. 


THE GIANT HORSE - SHOE 

HILE traveling down on the 
Beech Creek Railway, on Num- 
ber Thirty-six one windy March 
evening, at dusk, after the 
train left Peale, the conductor 
called my attention to the won- 
derful horse-shoe in the Black 
Moshannon, which flows three 
hundred feet below the tracks. I told him that 
I had always marvelled at and admired this 
great natural curiosity ever since my first ride 
on his line, on a sight-seeing tour as a school- 
boy fifteen years ago. Its perfect accuracy of 
dimensions stamped it as approaching the 
divine, rather than the natural. Being a 
stream in horse-shoe form it far exceeded in 
interest the “ horse-shoe curve” on the main 
line of the Pennsylvania Railroad, or the one 
on the Tyrone and Clearfield division, where a 
carload of circus performers went to their 
death about seventeen years ago. Even the 

299 



300 


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little tips at the points of the horse-shoe are 
carefully worked out in this horse-shoe of 
Black Moshannon. And at dusk, as the train 
(lew by, the stream had assumed the hue of 
silver, and it looked like a shoe from some 
celestial steed imbedded in dark, brown, deso- 
late earth. Beyond were the solemn brown 
hills, some few still summit-fringed with pitch 
pines, but all looking lonely, sad, oppressive. 
The grey sky had a few lingering streaks of 
silver in it; all was cold and wintry even 
though the blue birds and robins had been 
singing in the bare trees for a week past. It 
was the proper hour to view the horse-shoe, and 
judge its place in the scheme of nature. The 
conductor and I were admiring it, when a 
strange-looking, swarthy-complexioned individ- 
ual, big and fleshy, leaned over and touched me 
on the shoulder. I looked around, and he 
apologized for disturbing me, but asked if I 
cared to hear the legend of the giant horse- 
shoe, which appeared to interest me so much. 
I told him I would be delighted to hear it, as I 
had long puzzled over its origin, so he began 
his narrative. “ You would hardly believe it/’ 


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he said, “ but that horse-shoe, according to the 
Indians, is almost as old as man himself. Long 
ages before there was any thought of creating 
this world, there were two great spirits, broth- 
ers. self-existent, waiting, watching, and plan- 
ning. Each felt that to perpetuate his exist- 
ence he must create something, and make his 
nature live on in varied forms. One of the 
spirits, whom the Indians came to revere as 
Gitchie-Manito, or the Creator, solved the ques- 
tion and willed the ball of this earth into being. 
His infinite wisdom and skill that evolved such 
a mighty orb out of chaos, puzzled and alarmed 
his fellow-spirit Chit-ta-mic-co, the great ser- 
pent, or evil one; but all he could bring into 
light were a few stars, which fell through space 
into the eternal void. The globe of our earth, 
as it hung in space, balanced by celestial har- 
monies, seemed so beautiful and complete, that 
Gitchie - Manito sought to further enjoy the 
pleasure of having created it by giving physical 
form to his spiritual existence. Therefore, in 
short order, a race of beings appeared which 
were the physical complement to their Maker. 
This further aroused the grief and envy of the 


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unsuccessful Chit-ta-mic-co. Though he was 
probably as great spiritually as Gitchie-Manito, 
he seemed to lack his creative powers. He had 
failed dismally to will into being a world, but 
he determined to create beings that would be 
as beautiful as himself, compeers of the 
physical manifestations of the identity of 
Gitchie-Manito. But his attempts were 
hideous failures. Instead of seeing his spirit- 
ual image before him, he could only will into 
existence the creatures which we now call 
animals, birds, fishes and reptiles. The best 
he was able to do was to make apes of different 
kinds, horrid gibbering travesties on the divine 
attributes of man. But Chit-ta-mic-co being a 
beautiful spirit himself, was pained to see the 
hideous horde that he had loosed upon the 
earth. And if he felt a loathing, the beings 
who were created by Gitchie-Manito felt it 
more so. It was hard to reconcile them to their 
animal companions. They tried to destroy 
them whenever they could, regarding them in 
their dumb, untutored way as caricatures of a 
Grand Idea. Some few kinds of beasts were 
subjugated and put at cruel tasks, but the 


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majority were marked for slaughter whenever 
seen. This was contrary to the precepts of 
Gitchie-Manito, who sought to soften the hatred 
which welled up in the hearts of his creations 
for those of the unsuccessful God-Spirit Chit- 
ta-mic-co. One night Gitchie-Manito, being 
worn out with his labors and trials, slept. 
While he rested evil thoughts were brewing in 
the mind of Chit-ta-mic-co. He determined to 
undo all that Gitchie-Manito had evolved. He 
willed a flood, and lo, the banks of all the silver 
riband-like rivers that irrigated the world of 
his rival, overflowed their banks and threatened 
to annihilate every living thing. But the spirit 
and wisdom of Gitchie-Manito had poured 
freely into many of his beings, and out of 
gratitude to their Beginner were determined on 
self-preservation. They built rafts and floats, 
and many climbed aboard amid the rising 
waters and were saved. In recognition of the 
known desire of Gitchie-Manito they assisted 
aboard many of the animals and birds which 
were the handiwork of Chit-ta-mic-co. Some 
were too unwieldy and heavy, and these were 
pushed back into the frothing depths to perish. 


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When Gitchie - Manito awoke lie saw the at- 
tempted ruin of his Great Thought. Looking 
down with love on his world, and his creatures 
and the surviving productions of Chit-ta-mic-co, 
the waters receded and peace reigned on earth. 
Then another thought crossed his celestial in- 
tellect. lie spoke to Chit-ta-mic-co and asked 
if he felt sorry for what he had done, saying 
that in return he cherished no rancor. ‘ Yes’ 
he replied, ‘ so sorry that I wish I could depart 
to the uttermost bounds of space, and in the 
gloom and despond eke out my repentance.’ 
Then Gitchie - Manito willed into existence a 
giant creation, in form like a cross between a 
dragon and a horse. ‘ Ride this, Brother, to 
the furthest ends of all known things, if it is 
your will, and begin your career anew.’ The 
animal was shod with steel so he could tread 
without pain the fiery depths of seething under- 
worlds through which he must travel, and the 
thrice-defeated master spirit mounted him, and 
away they flew into distances incalculable to the 
mind of man. But once arrived at the utter- 
most end of things, Chit-ta-mic-co began re- 
pining. He was foolish to have acknowledged 



Photo by W. T. Clarke 









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305 


failure and gone off so meekly, especially 
mounted on a steed of another’s making. But 
the all-seeing eye of Gitchie-Manito was gen- 
erally upon him and he dreaded to cross blades 
with him again. The world of Gitchie-Manito 
was prospering — man was making the most of 
his opportunities, and a spirit of tolerance still 
existed extending even to many of the creations 
of the absent Chit-ta-mic-co. Every one was 
happy, even happier than before the deluge. 
The loving-kindness of Gitchie-Manito loomed 
large in his physical counterparts. From afar 
he viewed them with a love parental. They 
were a part of himself, yet each was so in- 
dividual, such a separate entity. And one 
bright day as he watched the comings and 
goings of his children, like a child watches the 
activities of an ant-hill, the Great Spirit slept. 
Chit-ta-mic-co had long waited for this op- 
portunity. He rose from the depths of his 
gloomy retreat, beyond the underworlds, and 
mounted his mammoth charger. He would 
ride steel-shod over Gitchie-Manito’s earth, and 
completely wreck the Earthly Paradise. The 
giant horse, though of Gitchie-Manito’s creat- 


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ing, became rebellious and entered into Cliit- 
ta-mic-co’s scheme. On they came, silent but 
ominous, until their giant shadow hung like a 
titanic storm-cloud above the earth. Just as 
this huge steed sunk one giant hoof into the 
soft brown earth, right in the track of one of 
Gitchie-Manito’s riband-like water-courses, the 
slumbering Great Spirit awoke. With a look 
that was calm but withering in its intensity he 
stared at his unsuccessful Brother, now his 
enemy. Chit-ta-mic-co quailed and quavered, 
but the eyes of Gitchie-Manito were on him and 
fly he must. He looked at the giant steed so 
intently and with such an expression of dis- 
appointment that it took fright, and before 
Chit-ta-mic-co could unhorse himself he was 
carried off on a journey that would know no 
finish, an endless galloping around the utter- 
most bounds of space. But the giant steed had 
left a hoof-print deeply outlined in the soft 
earth, and the riband-like watercourse flowed 
through the depression, and took it as its own. 
The world is going on much as it did in the 
days of Gitchie-Manito’s beginnings; the seeds 


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of unrest and evil sowed by Chit-ta-mic-co still 
exist, and man has not as yet wholly exter- 
minated the animals, birds and reptiles of his 
creating. But Indian wise men, who claim 
to have been close to the great heart of Gitchie- 
Manito, say that some day he will call Chit-ta- 
mic-co to him, and forgive him, and on that 
day all sin and unhappiness will leave the 
earth. The world is surely growing better now. 
That makes us feel that some day, as suddenly 
as sunshine can pour forth after a storm, we 
will find ourselves living under changed con- 
ditions, where there will be room for nothing 
else but joy. Until then man is an unhappy 
wanderer, and insecure in life and destiny. 
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this change came 
to pass during our own generation?” It was 
dark outside and the gaslights threw weird 
shadows across our faces, when the stranger 
finished his narrative. The train, half an hour 
late, was rattling along on its rocky bed, and 
nearing Beech Creek Station. When it stopped 
there, he threw his great black cloak about him, 
bidding me a cheery “ good-night,” and de- 


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scended into the night. After he had gone the 
conductor asked me who was my strange friend, 
but I had never seen him before. And he was 
no more strange than the legend he told me. 


XVII. 


TWO CKAZY MEN 

E were walking one evening at 
sundown in the cut in the direc- 
tion of M G Box when my com- 
panion tactfully drew my atten- 
tion to the top of the steep bank, 
where stood gazing down on us, 
two strange specimens of hu- 
manity. Bushy of beard and 
pitifully shabby they were posed motionless, 
with hands in pockets, with expressions that 
betokened a lack of reasoning faculties. 
“ Those are the two crazy men you have heard 
me speak about so much,” she said. I returned 
their gaze as we passed along, and wondered 
what could have put two brothers, apparently 
sturdy and leading composed lives, out of their 
minds. “ Would you like to hear the story of 
those two unfortunates?” asked my companion, 
after we were comfortably settled in the cozy 
box. I said that I would, and while the tele- 
graph instruments were clicking away and the 

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river splashing below us and in the distant 
darkness, heavy freights plugging up the hill 
chugged to the tune of “ ten-too-inany, ten-too- 
many, ten-too-many,” I was told the story of 
the two crazy men. In the early eighties old 
Saul McCracken died, leaving his lumber busi- 
ness and a snug fortune to his two sons, Eben- 
ezer and Ezekiel. Instead of moving into 
Andersonburg and buying fast horses and 
spending money, they determined to continue 
operatiug their father’s timber lands, which 
lay on the big flats beyond the cut. They 
seemed satisfied with the old house, and kept it 
just as it was during their parent’s life-time. 
They were industrious and shrewd, and the 
rise in the price of lumber soon brought them 
in a larger income than the poor old gentle- 
man ever dreamed of in his lifetime. The Me 
Crackens were good-looking young men, and 
wore, according to the style of thirty years ago, 
black beards that reached to their waists. Of 
these they were very proud. They had no 
other vanities. In a shanty by a large spring 
a mile back on the flat lived Samuel Atter, 
whom the McCrackens called their “ right hand 


Indian Steps 


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man.” He was boss in the woods, blacksmith, 
wheelwright, road-builder, horse-buyer and per- 
formed a dozen other jobs for his doting em- 
ployers. Samuel had a wife and a number of 
children, but all were married and living in 
various places, except one daughter, Christine. 
This unmarried daughter was counted a beauty, 
and being the youngest was greatly indulged by 
her parents. The McCracken brothers watched 
her grow up, and often jokingly told her father 
that when she was old enough they would find 
her a rich husband. The little girl used to 
listen to these remarks, and they made a deep 
impression on her childish mind. A wealthy 
husband seemed to be the thing she was in- 
tended for, and when on winter evenings 
around the stove her father and mother, to- 
gether with some of the loggers and skidders, 
discussed the wealth of the McCrackens, she 
made up her mind that she ought to marry 
one of the rich men who lived practically at 
her door. She had a lot of intuition, and to 
get one of these rich men she determined to be 
nice to both. She was ready to bring out 
chairs for them when they came to talk busi- 


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ness to her father, and would stand at a re- 
spectful distance, leaning against one of the 
uprights of the porch, eyeing them intently as 
they gave their orders and stroked their long 
black beards. Often she would appear at the 
McCracken home, and volunteer to do house- 
work or cooking. Her services were gladly 
accepted, and she had clear sailing, as the two 
bachelors would never employ a housekeeper. 
It was a relief to have some one put their 
desks and bookcases to rights, and cook their 
ham and eggs. Sometimes she would overhear 
them say they wanted some trifle at the store, 
or expected a letter, and no matter how muddy 
the roads, she would run to the village, nearly 
a mile distant, and carry out their errands. 
Several times they offered to make her presents 
of money. Christine always refused. She 
wanted the money badly enough, but she 
wished most to pretend she was disinterested. 
She was playing for bigger stakes. Despite 
her interest in the McCrackens, she had time 
to cultivate a more or less sordid romance 
with a young English miner at Glen Yarrick. 
She was so sly that her parents never realized 


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how much time she was spending with the 
McCrackens, and the rich brothers could not 
see how she would have time to be meeting a 
lover. ‘ Christine’s a good girl/ they would 
say to one another, in their rare lapses into 
conversation. 1 She never bothers with the 
boys ; she’s what you call a sensible girl.’ She 
was, if sensible means consistent interest in 
one’s own advancement. When Christine 
was nearly twenty, and was nearly worn out 
with waiting, Ebenezer McCracken began 
courting her. He was forty at the time, but 
looked older, as his black beard was beginning 
to be streaked with grey. It was a rude, 
homely courtship, but it was brief, once it got 
started, and in three months after the first 
words of love were said a heavy carryall, con- 
taining the McCracken brothers, Samuel Atter, 
his wife, Christine, and a driver, ploughed its 
way through the slushy roads to the county 
seat, where a license was taken out. That 
afternoon, at the Presbyterian parsonage, 
Christine Atter, 20, became the wife of Eben- 
ezer McCracken, 40. There was no wedding 
trip. The festivities were slight. The same 


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carryall load plus Rev. McNamee, the Presby- 
terian clergyman, returned to the McCracken 
home, where a supper was served, partaken of 
by the wedding party, some of Christine’s mar- 
ried brothers and sisters, and a few of the 
neighbors. The newly married couple took up 
their abode in the old homestead, where they 
came after the ceremony, and Ezekiel elected 
to also remain there. A German woman was 
engaged to do the rough work — Christine’s 
strength was not to be overtaxed. As far as 
the neighborhood knew, Christine did no 
other work than to cultivate a bed of 
carnations. But Christine’s artfulness was 
still in the expanding stage. She was 
continually asking her husband for twenty- 
dollar gold - pieces ; she was collecting them 
she said. These she hid in a tin-bucket under 
some rocks back of the spring house. Ebenezer 
was bountiful towards her; he always gave 
her twice as many gold-pieces as she asked for. 
She told him that Ezekiel was close, and might 
disapprove of all this liberality; it would be 
best not to tell him. Ebenezer felt rather 
ashamed himself that he was giving so much 


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315 


gold to his child-wife, so he was only too glad 
to keep it from his brother. While this was 
going on Christine was clandestinely meeting 
Ezekiel in the woods and telling him that she 
loved him ever so much better than Ebenezer; 
she was so sorry he had not asked her to 
marry him. Ezekiel was touched at this ex- 
position of his charms, and gave her a twenty- 
dollar gold-piece every time he heard it. 
Naturally he did not tell what he was doing 
to brother Ebenezer. Christine put the money 
she was getting from Ezekiel in a bucket under 
some rocks back of the spring house, in the 
same place where she put her ill-gotten gains 
from Ebenezer. One evening Ebenezer had 
forgotten to give an order to his factotum, 
Samuel Atter, and started through the woods 
by a short cut to that worthy’s shanty. In the 
depths of the hemlock tangles he came upon 
Christine and Ezekiel. He could scarcely be- 
lieve his eyes. They were not ghosts; they 
were the real persons. But it seemed incon- 
ceivable to look upon the staid Ezekiel with 
his arms around Christine, and kissing her on 
the mouth. He walked up so quietly that they 


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did not know of his presence, until he slapped 
Ezekiel on the back heavily, shouting, “ Rob- 
bers; you have robbed me of my happiness.” 
The guilty pair took the discovery very un- 
concernedly. Christine made no attempt at 
explanations at all. Ezekiel struck a defiant 
attitude, and told his brother that Christine 
had found out that she loved him better than 
her lawful spouse; it was a great tragedy, but 
true love could not be repressed. Ebenezer 
burst into tears; he loved Christine and 
Ezekiel; it was hard to hate them after learn- 
ing the awful truth. Ezekiel kept saying that 
‘ Providence hath ordained that Christine and 
I should love one another/ and other high- 
flown sentiments too much on the jellyfish 
order to perpetuate in this story. When he 
had justified himself to his own satisfaction, 
the trio returned to the McCracken homestead 
Indian file, with Christine between. Night 
was coming on, and as they entered the house 
Christine suggested that Ebenezer and Ezekiel 
adjourn to the library and talk the matter over 
while she helped the German woman get sup- 
per. It was to be a serious talk, and both 


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317 


brothers waxed eloquent before the ‘ Rock Oak’ 
stove. The German woman knocked on the 
door at half-past six ; it was then half an hour 
after the regular supper hour, but the brothers 
shouted out angrily, ‘ Let us be alone.’ She 
knocked again at half-past seven, when they 
called to her they would come out when they 
were good and ready, and not a minute sooner. 
The German woman knew their violent tem- 
pers, and concluded to let them alone. At 
midnight they emerged from their retreat; the 
problem had bedn solved. Ebenezer would 
allow Christine to get a divorce, and she would 
marry her soul-match, Ezekiel. The estate 
would be divided, and the newly-mated pair 
depart for the West. When they emerged, 
with faces twisted to resemble martyrs, they 
saw the German woman dozing, her head on 
the dining-room table. The lamp was nearly 
burned out. The supper was unpalatably cold. 
‘ Christine, Christine/ both brothers called 
in close harmony. Christine did not answer, 
but the German woman awoke. ‘ Where’s 
Christine?’ the brothers chorused. ‘ Dot I 
can’t say,’ replied the German woman 


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lethargically. ‘ She vas out back of der 
spring house shust ven you’ins began your con- 
ferinks, but she neffer come back/ The broth- 
ers looked at one another. Their interview, 
lasting six hours, had turned from tragedy to 
farce. They were soon on the trail, although 
they wanted to make themselves believe that 
Christine had merely gone to her parents’ house 
while her husband and his brother settled the 
momentous question. Lanterns were lit, and 
the brothers, in Indian file and supperless, 
started along the forest path to the home of 
Samuel After. They found the house in dark- 
ness ; it took half an hour to rouse the inmates. 
Christine wasn’t there, and her family said 
they hadn’t seen her. The brothers then de- 
clared she must have been lost or met with 
foul play in the woods. They tried to organize 
a search party, but the After household refused 
to join it. * Christine will turn up in the 
morning,’ said old After, as he shut the kitchen 
door in the faces of his benefactors. The 
brothers were too crestfallen to attempt a 
search by themselves, and returned to their 
home, and spent the night, taciturn and mopey, 


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319 


around the stove in their library. In the 
morning they summoned up courage to go on 
a search, but they only got as far as the Atter 
residence. Old Atter came out shaking his 
head. ‘ Too, too bad, gentlemen ; I hear some 
bad news about my girl. The boys over to 
the mines at Glen Yarrick saw Ethelbert Der- 
ham, that English miner, and Christine get 
on the night passenger train bound East. They 
had some heavy bundles with them, and they 
seemed excited. There’s no doubt of it, as a 
dozen saw them, who knew them both well.’ 
A shudder went through the sturdy frames of 
Ebenezer and Ezekiel McCracken. Their 
naturally pale faces assumed the greenness of 
death. Members of the Atter family say they 
would have fallen had not persons supported 
them. When they recovered their equilibrium 
both brothers broke down and wept like chil- 
dren. Then arm-in-arm they made off with 
staggering steps in the direction of their man- 
sion. They must have talked money matters 
on the way back, for the next week they ad- 
vertised a sale of their farm stock, and closed 
down the lumber operations. The German 


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woman was discharged, as was the hired man, 
and they began to do all their own work. The 
neighbors surmised that each had impoverished 
himself with gifts to the artful Christine. After 
the fact became known that the McCrackens 
were no longer wealthy, Samuel Atter openly 
approved of his daughter’s elopement with the 
English miner. However, she never came back, 
but her parents got letters from her, somewhere 
in the coal fields of Kentucky, where Ethelbert 
Derham blossomed out as an operator on a 
large scale. Gradually the McCrackens kept 
more and more to themselves. Naturally un- 
sociable, their lack of money made them more 
shunned than ever. They made no effort to 
seek people, and the public left them severely 
alone. Those who saw them said they were 
losing their minds. But they never got violent, 
and the neighbors were so indifferent that they 
never sought to have them incarcerated in an 
asylum. And so they go about, like poor, 
singed moths, friendless and helpless. They 
are pointed out to strangers as ‘ the two crazy 
men.’ No one ever gives them a kind word 
or a helping hand. They have never had an 


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321 


open sympathizer for their heart wounds. They 
still work over the missing Christine’s carna- 
tion bed. They bestow on it a world of loving 
care. It is the memento of happy days which 
they imagined were real.” 


XVII. 


THE SECTION HOUSE ON THE HILL 

DNA GALBKAITH had not seen 
Clyde Bowler for fully two years 
before her marriage to Elmer 
Bantz. The parting between the 
young couple had been stormy, 
as she had intercepted a letter 
he had written making an ap- 
pointment to meet another girl. 
As this was about the hundredth time she had 
accused him, and generally correctly, of un- 
faithfulness, it seemed time to break off an 
affair that had ceased to be a romance. But 
Edna had not done it without many misgivings. 
Again and again she was on the point of writ- 
ing him to come back and all would be for- 
given, but her self-respect rebelled. Edna was 
the prettiest waitress in the Waters House, 
the toast of a legion of travelling men, while 
Clyde was connected with the construction 
company putting in the new county bridge 

across the river. He had lived at the hotel for 
322 


E! J 




Indian Steps 


323 


six months, during which time his interest in 
Edna had gone on, ever since the first night 
at supper when she had brought in his ice 
water and butter, and asked him for his order. 
Some of the other girls to whom she confided 
her troubles said they believed he wanted to 
break with her before leaving; that was why 
his conduct with other women had become so 
audacious. But this only aroused Edna’s 
anger; she didn’t speak to the girls who said 
this for three days. “ She still loves him,” 
they whispered among themselves. The fact 
remained that Clyde left the day after the 
quarrel, looking not at all unhappy. Edna 
looked very pale when she served his last meal 
in silence, without even a word of the chaff 
that had usually gone on between them. She 
dropped forks and spoons several times, and 
altogether made a very forlorn appearance. 
Edna was a tall, striking-looking, graceful girl, 
a regular grenadier of a girl ; had she lived in 
a great city, she would have become a noted 
cloak model. Many travelling men told her 
this, but her thin lips smiled incredulously. 
Her hair was jetty black, and worn parted in 


324 


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the middle and fluffed at the sides. She had 
black eyes, rather small perhaps, but redeemed 
by arched black eyebrows and long black lashes. 
While her complexion was naturally pale, there 
was sometimes a faint flush in the cheeks. 
Her arched nose turned up just a trifle at the 
end, which meant that she could never look 
old. She rarely smiled, and when she did it 
was a smile of incredulity like when travelling 
men would say she ought to go to Philadelphia 
and become a noted cloak model. An actor told 
her that she had the features of Louise Homer 
and the expression and figure of Ethel Barry- 
more, whatever that might mean. Why she 
fancied Clyde Bowler out of a dining-room full 
of more or less attractive men was a mystery 
to her friends. He was a short man, squat, 
and bow-legged, with arms unnaturally long. 
He had rather full brown eyes, that were never 
at rest. You could not catch his eye for “ a 
fraction of a second,” using one of Edna’s 
favorite terms. His dark brown hair was in- 
clined to wave; it was probably the best look- 
ing thing to him. In disposition he was flip- 
pant, and pert; he liked to tease, was cruel, 


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325 


selfish and ofttimes sullen. Edna sometimes 
thought it was these frequent alterations of 
mood that made her like him. He was not 
generally polite or generally impolite, like most 
of the men she served. Sometimes he would 
tease her and keep laughing during the meal; 
on other occasions he would be glum and never 
say a word. He never paid her a compliment 
in the six months he lived at the hotel ; 
he never gave her a present, he never men- 
tioned marriage. And yet she loved him 
to distraction. He seemed to wield a strange 
hypnotic influence over her. The other 
waitresses professed to be afraid of him; the 
other regular guests disliked him. Edna said 
the other waitresses and guests were jealous. 
There was no cause for this, as he certainly did 
not act like a lover; if there were any advances, 
they were all made by Edna. Though she pro- 
fessed to be happy, the six months’ love affair 
with Clyde almost broke her down nervously. 
He delighted in making her jealous, to “ take 
her down” when others were present, to brow- 
beat and insult her. He liked to show his 
power over her as a blacksnake does before 
swallowing a robin. Edna was in reality un- 


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happy when she was with him, and unhappier 
when she was away from him. He would some- 
times sit through supper without saying a 
word, look at his watch and jump up quickly 
saying, “ I’ll be late for my date,” and hurry 
from the dining-room. Edna would be heart- 
broken; she always imagined he was going to 
meet another girl. Invariably next day some 
one would tell her of seeing Clyde out driving 
or at a picture show with a girl. Of course 
he never took her driving, or to shows; he 
merely kept her as his subjugated plaything. 
Edna was probably a weak girl, but more prob- 
ably very much infatuated. Often the manager 
of the hotel scolded her for inattention to other 
guests; she was looking at or thinking about 
Clyde all the time. She hated other men. 
Sometimes they would ask her to correspond 
with them; she would flounce out of the room 
and say to the other girls, “ The idea of that 
fresh fellow wanting me to write him!” Other 
men’s smiles were to her insults. After Clyde 
left the other guests breathed easily. Edna 
was so ravishingly lovely that they tolerated 
her incivilities; another girl would have been 


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“ reported’’ a score of times. Edna had other 
troubles besides her love affair. Her mother 
was dead. She boarded with an aunt by mar- 
riage, who was disagreeable and secretly dis- 
liked her. Her father also boarded there when 
he was in town. He drove a team in the 
woods; his visits to Youngmanstown were 
principally when he lost his job, or felt an 
irresistible desire for a spree. He had been 
a good-looking man in his day, but was now a 
battered bulk of his former self. The aunt 
occasionally took in other boarders, and the 
week before Edna’s break with Clyde had 
rented a room to Elmer Bantz, the new section 
boss. Elmer was a clean-cut young fellow, 
with brown hair and blue eyes, tall, lithe and 
powerful. If he had been born nearer civiliza- 
tion than in the wilds of the Seven Mountains, 
and had gotten an education, he might have 
some day filled an important position on the 
railroad. As it was, he had the “ prize” sec- 
tion, and was highly esteemed by his superiors. 
Despite her break with Clyde, Edna had 
utterly ignored the young man’s presence in 
the house. She contrived to go nearly a week 


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without being introduced, as they ate at dif- 
ferent hours, although they often ran into one 
another on the stairs and in the yard. Their 
rooms adjoined, but a thin partition of lath 
and plaster separated their beds when they 
slept. When they were presented, Edna gave 
him a curt bow, which cut the young fellow to 
the quick. But there were long months ahead, 
and eventually a friendship sprung up between 
them. It wasn’t tempestuous or exciting, but 
Edna admitted that Elmer was kind and she 
respected him. But still he belonged to that 
class of men whom women call “ unattractive,” 
and if he made a proposal of marriage, would 
have to wait for an answer. Many of the 
so-called “ attractive men” do not propose at 
all; they take for granted they are accepted 
from the start. Elmer, like many of his type, 
was generous, seeking by gifts to make up for 
the lack of that intangible “ charm” which 
women look for in men. He took Edna to 
shows, and for drives, and gave her candy, 
fruit, and even pieces of inexpensive jewelry. 
He proposed marriage, but was not given any 
encouragement. Still he was in love for the 


Indian Steps 


3k.9 


first time in liis life, although he was past 
twenty-eight, and he could not realize such a 
thing as defeat. It was probably a year after 
he had first mentioned the subject that 
Edna accepted him. It came suddenly. He 
had taken her to the Grangers’ Picnic at Cen- 
tre Hall, and they had a delightful day to- 
gether. Elmer was at his best; the good that 
was in him seemed magnified that day to such 
an extent that he barely missed being attrac- 
tive. Edna never looked so pretty — her eyes 
were their blackest and snappiest, her com- 
plexion the whitest, her nose haughtiest and 
most clean-cut. It was one of those crisp Sep- 
tember days with northwest winds, days of ac 
complishment and progress. The breezes were 
impregnated with the life-giving qualities of 
the pine-covered mountains. On the special 
train which ran down the valley that evening 
Elmer and Edna lay back in their seat, a trifle 
dusty and foot-sore, but in more complete har- 
mony than they had ever been before. Had 
Edna been able to feel in rapport with the 
young section boss previous to this, his en- 
treaties would have received favorable answer. 


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It must have been the northwest winds, or the 
golden hour that did it. The train was passing 
through the stretch of original forest, inky 
black with its tangle of pine, hemlock and 
rhododendron, that lies between Zerby and 
Coburn, when Elmer looked around and whis- 
pered his love story to Edna. The sun was 
hidden by the forest depths; it was like an 
arboreal tunnel, a labyrinth for lovers. Time 
and place were working in unison with the 
calm in the girl’s soul. She wanted something 
definite in her career. She accepted him. 
And for a few hours thereafter probably loved 
him sincerely. Those few hours of genuine 
affection to a man who had never stopped long 
enough to find out what it was to be loved 
were enough to store Elmer with happiness to 
last for the balance of his days. He was not 
to know much more. Edna was seen with him 
constantly after that, but she never acted quite 
as nicely again as she did that evening coming 
back from the Granger’s Picnic. She had se- 
cured her “ something definite” in life ; it 
wasn’t exactly her ideal, consequently she 
couldn’t be expected to treat it as such. But 


Indian Steps 


331 


she was dutiful. She never noticed another 
man, was even more indifferent to the travel- 
ling men than in the days when Clyde Bowler 
boarded at the Waters House. One morning 
when she came to work she found a letter ad- 
dressed to her stuck up ou the sink in the 
pantry. It was in a small, screwed, feminine 
hand. She didn't recognize it at first, nor the 
post-mark, Akron, Ohio. Many travelling men 
learned her name and wrote her letters or 
cards ; this might be from one of these. Before 
she opened it, however, she scrutinized the 
handwriting; it was from Clyde Bowler. What 
could he be writing about? She tore it open; 
it was only a short note. He never wrote 
much, though he got letters sometimes of forty 
pages from girls whose hearts he had broken. 
In this letter he said he had heard that Edna 
was to get married ; he was sorry to hear this, 
as he imagined that despite their little differ- 
ence in the past, she still cared for him alone. 
He hoped she wmuld write to him occasionally, 
even if she did get married; he would come 
to see her if he ever got to Youngmanstown. 
Edna did not know whether to be pleased or 


332 


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hurt. The former lover seemed to be display- 
ing a proprietary interest in her which she 
resented; yet it was Clyde, the only Clyde. 
She should have thrown the letter in the stove, 
but instead hid it in her dress. She served 
breakfast in a state of daze. She spilt a cup 
of hot cocoa in a Baptist clergyman’s lap, 
scalding his thighs, which resulted in a calling- 
down from the head-waitress when the dining- 
room doors were shut. Returning home she 
put the letter in her bureau-drawer under some 
petticoats. It worried her to have it there. 
Her conscience urged her to burn it, but per- 
verse elements in her stayed her hand. She 
compromised, she thought, with conscience 
when she took the letter out of her own bureau 
and put it in a drawer of a bureau in a vacant 
room, sometimes let to boarders. That even- 
ing when Elmer came home he brought a young 
man with him. This youth was to take charge 
of his section after his marriage, as he, Elmer, 
was promised the section below town, which 
carried with it the new section house on the 
hill. Elmer was showing him around the 
house, so he might have a choice of rooms when 


Indian Steps 


333 


they happened into the one where Edna had 
secreted her unwholesome letter. Mechanically 
he pulled open the drawers of the empty bu- 
reau. He saw the letter addressed to his sweet- 
heart. His first thought was that it was from 
one of her girl friends or relatives, so did not 
glance at it a second time. The handwriting 
being feminine, he was deceived. When his 
friend, after selecting a room, which happened 
to be his old room, had gone, Elmer began 
thinking about the letter. What was it doing 
upstairs in the drawer of that bureau in that 
empty room? He tried to fight his doubts, 
but failed. He ran up the stairs, his heart 
beating, hoping against hope that his fears 
were unjust. He opened it. “ Dearest Edna,” 
it began. He read the letter with mingled 
disgust and anger. “ Lovingly yours, Clyde,” 
it ended. Some other man had a hold on a 
corner of his fiancee’s heart — he was not to 
have it all. lie put it back in the drawer, and 
tottered downstairs. At first he decided to 
demand an explanation from Edna when she 
returned. He was naturally peaceable and 
reticent, and Edna being the one woman in the 


334 


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world for him, and being fearful of losing her, 
he remained silent. She noticed that he w T as 
more than usually quiet and undemonstrative, 
and asked him the reason. He told her that 
one of his men had been killed by the west- 
bound passenger train the week before; it 
grieved him whenever he thought of the widow 
and five little ones left behind. He continued 
to love, yet it wasn’t the love of old. Duty 
was largely its context, pride its other com- 
ponent. Edna was a girl who thrived on love. 
If Elmer had told her of his discovery, there 
might have been a few sharp words, ending by 
the girl’s tearful apologies, for at this stage 
she meant no harm. She could not help but 
see that Elmer was more distant, and instead 
of questioning him, retaliated by being more 
reserved herself. By the time of the wedding, 
they acted towards one another as if they had 
been married ten years. Elmer had good 
friends, and easily obtained the passes and 
permission to take a wedding trip. Harris- 
burg — to see the new State Capitol — was the 
first point of interest visited; then Philadel- 
phia, then Atlantic City. The bridegroom was 


Indian Steps 


335 


liberal and thoughtful on the trip ; he saw that 
she missed nothing; he made her many little 
gifts. But loverlike qualities were more ab- 
sent than ever; finding that letter had shriv- 
elled his passion like tobacco in a drying room. 
Not being completely happy, Edna came home 
with very little to tell about. We only notice 
things when we are happy, or when some one 
is with us who makes us happy. On trips 
when we see things we admire we know what 
person we care for most ; that is the person we 
always wish was along to help enjoy what seems 
wonderful to us. The young couple moved 
into the section house, which had been com- 
fortably furnished. Elmer’s mother and sis- 
ters, and Edna’s aunt and father, as well as 
several of her cousins were on hand to greet 
them. The supervisor, a kindly, simple man, 
sent them a Billiken with a card attached wish- 
ing them good luck. This was put on the 
dresser in the dining-room. Every one seemed 
happier than the bridal pair; but nothing was 
noticed. The section house stood on a hill 
above the tracks. It was a two-story and a 
half affair, of conventional design, and painted 


336 


Indian Steps 


tlie conventional drab. It had a garden con- 
nected with it, and there were several sickly 
maple saplings growing in the front yard. A 
flight of wooden steps ran down the hill to the 
highway, and the tracks. In the distance, be- 
3’ond the fertile stretches of White Deer Hole 
Valley, rose the camel-backed ranges of pine 
crested Cochnehaw Mountains. But Edna was 
industrious and set out to make the best of 
conditions. Love, a very necessary occupant 
of every home of married people, was missing; 
it would take a lot of very hard work to forget 
its absence. If she had been willing to have 
children that might have redeemed the union. 
But she wanted no children. When Elmer 
came home from work he was assured of a 
tolerably cordial greeting. He was thankful 
for one thing; Edna, though undemonstrative, 
was no eomplainer. It was another case of 
“ the heart knoweth its own bitterness” on both 
sides. As she got her household duties regu- 
lated, Edna came to have more time to herself. 
She often walked to town, three-quarters of a 
mile away, where she made purchases, or called 
to see her aunt and other relatives. Once or 







- 






■ , 


ys.'Z 


mm 


LAST RAFT IN WEST BRANCH, 1912 
































Indian Steps 


337 


twice she dropped in at the hotel, to speak to 
her old comrades in the dining-room. Elmer 
could see her from where he superintended his 
men on the tracks, as she walked to and from 
town ; he wondered why she went so frequently. 
Once or twice when the morning sun beat down 
on his head ferociously, he would think of that 
letter, and wonder where it was now. In the 
excitement of getting married, he had neg- 
lected to look in that empty bureau before 
leaving the house. One Sunday they went to 
spend the day with Edna’s aunt, and Elmer 
slipped upstairs and into the unoccupied room. 
He pulled open the drawer with feverish haste. 
The letter was gone. He was wild with an- 
guish, and could only restrain himself from 
shouting out his grief by the thought that the 
room had been cleaned subsequently and the 
letter probably thrown out. He was not aware 
that when women once treasure an object, they 
preserve it to the end. After this incident 
Elmer was more reserved, more dubious than 
ever. One morning he saw a short, broad- 
shouldered, long-armed man marching along 
the highway in the direction of his home. The 


338 


Indian Steps 


weather was hot, and he had removed his derby 
hat, coat and vest. Even then he would stop 
every hundred yards or so and mop his brow. 
“ He must be an agent of some kind ; what 
else would send a dressy chap like that out 
here on such a day?” remarked the boss, to 
one of his men. He was seen going in the 
house, as near as Elmer could figure it out, 
at about ten o’clock. It was half-past one 
when they saw him wending his way down the 
road in the direction of Derrstown. Evidently 
he was an agent moving on towards the next 
tow r n ; but why did he stay so long in that one 
house? “ Must have some new-fangled sew- 
ing machine,” said one of the hands, jocosely. 
It was the longest afternoon for Elmer that he 
had ever put in. When he got home, he re 
solved he would not ask Edna about her caller; 
he’d wait to see what she had to say. But he 
couldn’t contain himself; he was scarcely in- 
side the door when he asked her who she’d been 
entertaining so long. She hesitated a half 
minute, as if trying to think up a falsehood, 
but couldn’t, and faltered, “ Wby, it was only 
Clyde Bowler, an old friend of mine; he used 


Indian Steps 


339 


to board at the hotel; he’s been in Ohio for 
two years.” She need not have been so ex- 
plicit; Elmer knew enough when he heard the 
first name. He compressed his lips ; he would 
not speak his thoughts. Had his wife been 
corresponding with that old lover, or what 
brought him to their home? This and other 
sinister misgivings were choked still-born in 
his throat. The evening passed on prosaically 
as many others had ; husband and wife retired 
together. Edna slept, but Elmer tossed and 
rolled, while his burning soul consumed itself. 
Days passed; Edna occasionally went to town, 
but no signs were seen of the gorilla-like little 
stranger. Elmer belonged to several lodges 
in Youngmanstown, which took him to meet- 
ings sometimes three nights a week. He 
usually left home immediately after supper, 
and would not return until midnight. In his 
absence Edna read cheap novels, and then went 
to bed. At least that had been her custom. 
But subsequent to the initial visit of Clyde 
Bowler, she began receiving visits from him on 
nights when Elmer was away. He had left his 
position in Ohio, and temporarily was doing 


340 


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nothing*. He boarded with friends at Derrs- 
town, and slept most of the time, except when 
being entertained by Edna. She gave him a 
schedule of nights when her husband was gen- 
erally absent, but to make sure she would set 
a lighted lamp in the kitchen window as a 
signal that “ the coast was clear.” Clyde, 
secreted in a grove of white oaks, would hurry 
across the common when the signal was flashed 
to him. At first he pretended to come in the 
guise of an old friend and advisor. Edna, of 
course, confided her loneliness, her unhappi- 
ness, the disappointments of her married life. 
From friend and advisor Clyde assumed the 
role of consoler, at which he was adept. On 
the third visit the misguided young wife con- 
fessed her undying love for him ; he had her in 
his power again; he was her proprietor. 
Wildly infatuated, she would have done any- 
thing to see him often; she began inventing 
excuses to send her husband to town at night. 
There were not any near neighbors, but there 
was a house or two near the oak wood where 
Clyde hid himself. The occupants noticed a 
man running across the common at night, and 


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into the back door of Elmer Bantz’s home, like 
some hyena hunting carrion. If they were be- 
lated, they often met this man, with a cap 
drawn over his eyes, tramping along the road 
towards Derrstown close to midnight. Clyde 
“ loved” Edna less now than he did three years 
before when he boarded at the Waters House. 
He was older and more hardened. He only 
went to see her for the sport of turning her 
from her husband, and for the pleasure of hav- 
ing another man’s lawful wife madly enamored 
with him. He wouldn’t marry her if the hus- 
band found out; oh, no, not he. He would 
have the joke on both wife and husband then. 
These were samples of his thoughts as he 
tramped the midnight roads to Derrstown. 
One black October night while Elmer was help- 
ing to clean up after a freight wreck, Edna 
and Clyde were together in an ecstasy of one- 
sided love. The girl was stroking his hair and 
eyebrows, and kissing him, and calling him 
extravagant “ pet” names, when there came 
loud knocks at the kitchen door. They were de- 
termined, dismal knocks. Edna hated to go 
to the door; she was so happy making love to 


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her betrayer. The knocking continued, she 
must go. “ Stay here, darling one,” she whis- 
pered, giving him a final kiss, “ and if it’s 
trouble I’ll turn the knob of the sitting-room 
door, and you can slip out the front door.” 
She had kicked off her Oxfords, and slipped to 
the door in her stocking feet. She opened the 
door, and peered out anxiously. Two tall men, 
very pale, and with eyes quivering, stood before 
her. She recognized them as a couple of 
Elmer’s section hands. When they saw her 
they took off their hats, and came into the 
kitchen without saying a word. Edna turned 
up the lamp which sat on the window sill. The 
men stroked their hats, their vests, their mus- 
taches; their silence was oppressive, ominous. 
At length one of them said bluntly, “ Mrs. 
Bantz, I’m terribly sorry to tell you that your 
husband’s been hurt to-night.” Then the other 
man said, “ He was hit by a special containing 
some officials as he was coming across the 
tracks from the tool-house.” “ They’re going 
to take him to the hospital at Derrstown, but 
the doctors are afraid he can’t recover.” Edna 
was sitting in a heavy kitchen chair speechless, 


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343 


petrified. She jumped up screaming, “ My 
Heavens, my Heavens, he’s dead, he’s dead.” 
Then she turned and ran into the front 
room, turning the key after her. Clyde 
was lolling, partly asleep, on the Davenport 
where she had left him. When she came in he 
gazed at her half smilingly with his restless, 
shifty eyes. “ Elmer’s dead ; Elmer’s dead ; 
give me your help and sympathy,” said Edna 
in a half whisper. “ You must never leave me 
now.” The little man got up from the Daven- 
port and stretched his long, gorilla-like arms. 
“ Give you help and sympathy ; never leave 
you; wliat’s that? Who do you think you are? 
You’re a fool if you think you’ll get it from 
me. I’m no charity organization. You can’t 
make a mark out of me.” Edna gazed at him 
in amazement. He found his hat and coolly 
went out the front door, disappearing into the 
night. Edna fell, face downwards, on the 
Davenport in a faint, her black skirts tumbled 
about her in charming disarray. The two 
stolid section hands waiting in the kitchen let 
ten minutes on the loud-ticking clock go by. 
Then they 'called through the door, but there 


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was no response. Putting their weight against 
the flimsy woodwork it gave way. The lamp 
had almost burned out, but they could see 
Edna lying senseless on the sofa. “ Run, quick, 
Bill, and get some cold water,” said one of 
the men. 


XIX. 


AN ETERNAL FEUD 

RECALL very well when I read 
the simple paragraph in the 
Democrat stating that Patrick 
Niles, a woodsman, had been 
badly crushed by a falling log, 
while working on Mosquito 
Creek, and had been taken to 
the Williamsport Hospital. The 
following day when I met John Dyce while 
walking to McElhattan Springs, he opened his 
pocket-book and took out the clipping about 
this accident to Patrick Niles. He asked me 
if I had seen it, to which I replied “ yes,” add- 
ing that I hoped the poor fellow would recover. 
The old hunter shook his head, and said that 
“ he feared it was all over with him, as he was 
the third in a link of remarkable coincidences.” 
I probably owe more of my respect for the 
supernatural to John Dyce than any one else, 
as he took such a human view of it that it 

was never uncanny. Of Highlander and 

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Seotch-Irish ancestry, he was well fitted to 
chronicle the mysteries of the mountains. We 
proceeded to the Springs, where we sat on a 
bench, and the story was told as follows : “ In 
the early years of the Nineteenth Century the 
Niles family occupied a respectable homestead 
in County Derry, Ireland. The head of the 
family was Patrick Niles, a sturdy, old-fash- 
ioned Presbyterian. His ancestors were 
among Cromwell’s importations into the Emer- 
ald Isle, and how his parents came to give him 
the name of Patrick, when they hated every- 
thing Irish, is more than I can say. There is 
a beautiful fishing stream in Derry called the 
Swatragh. Among the first Scotch-Irish to 
settle in Pennsylvania came from along its 
banks, and they named the pretty stream in 
Lancaster County, which now goes by the name 
of Swatara, after it. The Niles homestead was 
on a hill at the edge of a meadow, not far from 
where a lane forded the Swatragh; the place 
was known as Niles’ Ford. Patrick Niles 
often went to market and to fairs, and one 
evening, just before sundown, his family saw 
him standing on the opposite side of the ford. 


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He was a temperate man, so they could not 
imagine why he would tarry so long, and not 
cross on the footbridge which spanned the 
stream directly below the house. He stood so 
rigid and motionless that they feared that he 
was ill, so one of his sons, a boy named Isaac, 
called to him. There was no answer, so he 
ran down the hill and along the stream in the 
direction of his father. As he drew near, the 
tigure smiled and then seemed to diminish and 
grow smaller, and when he reached the spot 
where he had stood, no signs of him were to be 
seen. Thoroughly alarmed, the boy looked back 
in the direction of the homestead; he could 
see his mother and sisters running about the 
yard in a state of the wildest excitement. Evi- 
dently they, too, had seen the figure fade out 
of sight. Isaac surveyed the ground carefully, 
but couldn’t find a footprint to prove that his 
father had actually been there. He returned 
to the house, where his family stated that they 
had been watching from the yard, and had seen 
the entire phenomenon. They confirmed his 
view of it, that when he had approached, the 
figure’s face lit up with a smile, then gradually 


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faded out of sight. ‘ Father will think we’ve 
all gone crazy when we tell him this after he 
gets home,’ said the youngest daughter, Mary. 

‘ I’m afraid we’ll never see him again alive,’ 
said the mother, who knew a few of the old- 
time tokens. Patrick Niles did not return that 
night. The boys went to the adjoining villages 
the next morning, but there was no one who 
remembered having seen him. That afternoon 
two constables came to the homestead to tell 
the sorrowful news that the dead body of Niles 
had been found back of a stone wall, with 
several stab-wounds in the abdomen. A large 
quantity of money was found in his pockets; 
he had not been murdered by robbers. From 
the looks of the body, the unfortunate man 
had evidently been killed late the afternoon 
previously. In other words, about the time 
when his shade or double had appeared to his 
family on the opposite side of the ford. There 
were no signs of a scuffle on the road; he had 
evidently been stabbed quickly before he could 
defend himself, and his body hidden out of 
sight. No trace of the culprit was ever found, 
although the case attracted great attention at 


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the time. Patrick Niles did not leave his fam- 
ily in very good circumstances, so the wife 
decided to emigrate to the United States with 
her five children. Besides, the horrible details 
of their father’s death made them want to get 
away as far as possible from the old scenes. 
They settled for a time in Philadelphia, but 
city life was not congenial to any of them. 
They heard of a tract of timber land that was 
susceptable of cultivation on the Sinnemahon- 
ing, and all moved into the wilderness. It was 
not loug before they became influential resi- 
dents. Isaac grew to manhood, a fine, ath- 
letic-looking fellow, and married a daughter of 
one of the old-time settlers in the Sinnemahon- 
ing country. He became interested in lumber- 
ing and rafting, and accumulated quite a snug 
little competence. He was one of the first 
men I met when I took to following the river, 
and he invited me to stop at his home. At 
that time he had taken up a large tract of 
original pine on Mosquito Creek, and every 
spring sent a fleet of rafts to Marietta. He 
was one of the pioneers of rafting, and made 
money out of it before it was overdone. The 


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great disappointment of his life was that he 
had no children. He made a great deal of all 
the young people, and when he met me on 
Mosquito Creek getting out a raft of spars, he 
couldn’t do enough for me. He had an adopted 
daughter, Daisy Plunkett, a pretty red-haired 
girl, who was greatly admired by all the young 
woodsmen, but she didn’t seem inclined to 
marry any of them. She was in love with a 
young half-breed Indian, it was said. We 
never saw him, but it was reported that she 
used to meet him somewhere in the mountains. 
I used to wonder why, if she was so much in 
love with him, that she didn’t elope. When I 
got to know the half-breeds better I under- 
stood all right. While they were agreeable and 
some of them good-looking, they wouldn’t 
work, and would rather sleep in a 1 lean to’ 
in the woods than in a house. I recall once that 
Niles asked me if I had ever seen Daisy talking 
to a half-breed, but I had never been that for- 
tunate. I only tell this to show that while 
outwardly he was a genial enough man, at 
heart he was of a suspicious nature, not al- 
together happy in his home life. His wife was 


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351 


devoted to him, but between them was always 
the barrier of childlessness. His home on 
Mosquito Creek was solid-looking and com- 
fortable. It was built on a hill overlooking 
a meadow and a ford. Locally it was known 
as ‘ Niles’ Ford.’ Evidently old memories of 
Ireland were clinging to him ; he wanted a spot 
that reminded him of his happy childhood. 
That was stronger than the desire to blot out 
the associations of his father’s death. But 
the landscape surrounding his new home must 
have been vastly different from that in the old 
country. Mosquito Creek was hemmed in by 
tall mountains, culminating in the Knobs, 
which were so high and massive that they 
seemed to be pillars holding up the clouds. 
Much original timber was standing ; the moun- 
tains looked blue-black at all seasons of the 
year. Three hundred and sixty million feet 
of timber were floated out of this creek, to say 
nothing of what was sawed in mills on the 
ground. Isaac Niles transacted considerable 
business with parties in Sinnemahoning, and 
it was nothing for him to walk there and back 
across the mountains in one day. Like his 


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father, he was a temperate man, and while ab- 
sent attended strictly to business. It was late 
one beautiful summer afternoon when Niles had 
gone on one of his trips, that his wife and Daisy 
went out on the front steps to wait for him. 
They looked across the ford and to their dismay 
saw him standing there, rigid and motionless. 
The rich-colored rays of the sun were shining 
in his face, but he seemed utterly regardless of 
everything. Both women called to him, but 
he did not answer. Knowing his temperate 
habits, they were sure he could not have been 
drinking; he must be ill. ‘ Go and see what’s 
the matter with father,’ said Mrs. Niles, nerv- 
ously, so the girl ran down the steps and the 
hill, not stopping until she reached the ford, 
opposite to where he stood. When she drew 
near she could see him smile, which was all the 
more unusual, as he smiled seldom despite his 
kindly nature. Then he began to diminish and 
grow smaller, until he vanished completely. 
The girl was so overcome with fright that she 
could not move for several moments after he 
had gone. She looked around, and could see 
her mother sitting on the steps, with her head 


Indian Steps 


353 


buried in her apron, evidently weeping. Daisy 
hurried back to her, and the woman confirmed 
what she had seen. A figure, certainly it was 
that of Isaac Mies, was standing on the opposite 
side of the ford. When the girl had ap- 
proached, it had smiled at her, and then faded 
out of sight. ‘ We’ll have quite a joke on 
father when he comes home to-night,’ said the 
girl in an honest effort to revive her mother’s 
spirits. ‘ We’ll never see him again alive,’ said 
the woman, trying to dry her tears. True 
enough, the sun set in all its crimson glory, 
dusk softened into darkness, the crickets and 
the frogs took up their singing lessons, the 
lamplight gleamed from out the kitchen win- 
dows, but Isaac Niles did not return. Al- 
though it was June, and a clear night, the 
wolves howled piteously on the ridge back of 
the manse, keeping the cattle and sheep awake 
and making them rattle their bells in a mourn- 
ful dirge. The next morning Daisy saddled 
one of the horses and rode boldly across the 
mountains to Sinnemahoning. Every one said 
that Isaac Niles had not been seen there in over 
a week. She recounted the story of his disap- 


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pearance, and several of his friends started out 
to hunt him. That evening, just before sunset, 
two of these men, looking tired and careworn, 
came into the Mies kitchen. Daisy had re- 
turned a few minutes before, and was helping 
her mother prepare a little supper. They told 
the grief-stricken women how they had found 
the dead body of Isaac Niles, with a bullet 
wound in his abdomen, lying behind a pile of 
spars, on the mountain several miles above 
Sinnemahoning. His watch and money were 
in his pockets ; the motive of the crime was not 
robbery. They judged he had been murdered 
the evening before. Daisy's grief was pitiable 
to behold, for despite a desire to regulate her 
affairs of the heart, Niles had treated her well. 
Mrs. Niles took the news rather coolly. ‘ I 
had expected this all along after seeing his 
ghost last evening.’ Then she told them what 
had happened, Daisy corroborating her, and 
also the story of the death of her husband’s 
father, Patrick Niles. As in the case of his 
father, the murderer of Isaac Niles was never 
discovered. For a time suspicion rested on 
the half-breed who had been attentive to Daisy. 


Indian Steps 


355 


But lie was able to prove a complete alibi, as 
he was in Lock Haven at the time. Daisy never 
married him. Isaac Niles had no one else who 
had aught against him, so it was declared after 
the most rigid investigation. It will always 
be a mystery, except that he was evidently 
murdered by a representative of the slayers of 
his father, a survival of some eternal feud. If 
the ghosts of Patrick and Isaac Niles could 
have spoken, they would have cleared up every- 
thing, but they only had strength enough to 
appear; they could not deliver their messages. 
This Patrick Niles who just met with an acci- 
dent on Mosquito Creek is, I am sure, no rela- 
tion to the others; he belongs to a different 
breed; but some unkind force, which lay in 
wait for his namesakes, has made him pay a 
similar penalty. Probably, if the facts were 
known, he has been badly crushed about the 
abdomen by some falling tree, felled unex- 
pectedly on him by his Nemesis.” I looked at 
John Dyce’s serious, thoughtful face, as he 
finished the narrative. “ What do all these 
things mean ?” I asked, “ is there a Control in 
Nature that we can only see at times?” 


XX. 


DRIVING OUT OF ROCKY 

HREE small frame houses stood 
along Rocky Run, near where it 
empties into Pine Creek. Two 
of them were occupied by old 
soldiers and one by a soldier’s 
widow. The old veterans and 
the widow had sons, all in their 
early twenties, who worked as 
log-drivers and bark-peelers. The three boys 
were lifelong friends, as their parents had been, 
and their similar occupations made the bond 
closer. One of the boys, Fred Rhoads, had a 
sweetheart, Celandine Peterson, but the other 
two were as yet heart free. Fred was the 
widow’s son, and he could not very well get 
married “ until he got ahead a little,” as he 
would have two dependent upon him. Celan- 
dine lived about half a mile up the Run, in a 
little ravine that opened into the main hollow. 
Her father was a Norwegian, her mother Ger- 
man, and she inherited the good looks of both 
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357 


races. Slie was rather tall, with hair like 
purest gold, and high color that came and went 
with her varying moods. She had rather small 
eyes, “ cat’s eyes” jealous girls called them — 
eyes that were more green than blue or grey, 
but filled with expression. They were eyes 
that foretold an eventful career. Fred 
Rhoads was a tall, dark chap, brave and light- 
hearted, typical of his class. The other two 
boys, Ben Herman and Austin Miller, were of 
fair complexion, but strong and sturdy. Rocky 
Run was one of the last tributaries to Pine 
Creek opened up by the lumbermen. For years 
it had been cruised over by experts, who pro- 
nounced it too dangerous to drive. Lumber 
railways of the cog-wheel engine and fourteen 
per cent, grade type, had not as yet come into 
vogue, and a territory that did not have a 
stream capable of running logs had to lie fal- 
low. But the demand for lumber, especially 
for large bodies of standing timber, was be- 
coming more active; regions once overlooked 
were being operated. A large tanning and 
lumber company purchased the timber which 
stood for five miles along the headwaters of 


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Rocky, and despite its jagged rocks, it must 
be “ run.” The first drive was quite a local 
event. Farmers from the Pine Creek Valley 
brought their families in wagons to see the fun. 
Any one could see logs floating in a smooth 
current, but it was something more to see logs 
bounding and leaping over the rocks and foam 
of Rocky. “ Rocky can never be driven,” had 
been the shibboleth of the old-timers, but mod- 
ern skill and ingenuity was overcoming all this. 
But the first drive ended in a casualty, and not 
a frolic. When the yellowish hemlock logs came 
within sight of Pine Creek, rubbed full of 
bristles from contact with the rocks, the drivers 
said that one of the boys, a big Swede, had 
fallen in and been drowned somewhere along 
the drive. “ Too bad,” every one agreed. “ But 
what do them Swedes know about driving?” 
was the way the native audience dismissed 
the subject. But nevertheless a drive with 
the remnants of a big Swede somewhere 
underneath had lost most of its zest as 
a spectacle. “ They’ll be more careful in 
another year,” said the Methodist preacher, 
trying his best to smooth matters over. 


Indian Steps 


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Celandine Peterson was at the bank with 
her mother and little sister, and waved 
to Fred Rhoads and his chums when they came 
by after the tumult. They didn’t smile much, 
and Fred stopped and told her about the acci- 
dent, three miles up stream. “ You remember 
big Gus Helgerson, that tow-headed fellow that 
boarded at Blackwell’s? He was the victim.” 
Celandine turned away; she had seen enough 
of the first drive out of Rocky to suit her that 
day. The big Swede’s body was never recov- 
ered; it was probably ground small enough to 
feed the mountain trout before reaching Pine 
Creek. When the drive had gotten to Will- 
iamsport in safety, every one began feeling 
elated again. The logs from Rocky had reached 
market, the permanency of the local industry 
was assured, there was enough timber standing 
on the run and its tributaries to last fifteen 
years yet. The boys wouldn’t have to go away 
to work ; it would be bark in summer, driving 
in spring and fall, skidding and road-building 
in winter. Men, boys and teams would always 
be in demand. Fred Rhoads and his chums 
the first to strike out for the bark- 


were among 


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woods after the drive. They wanted no holi- 
day ; besides, Hoytville was too far away to go 
for a jubilation. The weather was still cold, 
and Celandine was still kept busy “ firing up” 
the stoves when time came to bid goodbye to 
her lover. She promised to visit him in camp 
— it would be lots of fun to come up there with 
her sister and a couple of their girl friends the 
first fine Sunday. But before even the first 
Sunday had rolled around Fred appeared ; she 
thought him a ghost, she was so unprepared to 
see him. “ They must have a woman to run 
Carter’s Camp — that Irish woman went on a 
huff, and they can’t do anything with her; 
won’t your mother and you take the job?” The 
German woman hesitated, as all German 
women must. She consulted with her Nor- 
wegian husband, who was still more undecided. 
Fred had come determined to move the Peter- 
sons to Carter’s Camp. He wanted to please 
his boss; he wanted Celandine to be near him 
— always. Five miles wasn’t much to inter- 
vene; some lovers are separated by a thousand 
miles, but five miles to a busy man is more 
than a thousand to a globe-trotter. Celandine 


Indian Steps 


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was finally named as arbitrator, and decided 
instantly that they must go. Minnie, the 
younger sister, was equally anxious; she liked 
one of the bark-peelers; she didn’t even know 
his name, but she liked him, and wanted to see 
him again. They looked like a party of nomads 
when they started up the run. The old bay 
horse was drawing the express wagon loaded 
with Mrs. Peterson’s favorite and indispensable 
stove, her favorite utensils, some rocking 
chairs, bedding, and clothing. The Norwegian 
husband held the lines, walking along beside 
the wagon. Mrs. Peterson and Minnie walked 
single file behind, and bringing up the rear, at 
a very respectful distance, were Fred and 
Celandine. They were holding hands already, 
and some times he would slip his arm around 
her waist and give her a squeeze. It was an 
elysium they were headed for — a summer to- 
gether far in the wilderness, with not a jarring 
element. What desolated country they were 
passing through! It would have made a good 
illustration for some work on Judea. Last 
year’s operations had left a honeycomb of hem- 
lock stumps everywhere, anon, and everywhere. 


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The hardwoods were still standing, but the fire 
had been through them two weeks before, and 
scorched brown the silvery trunks of the 
beeches, and shrivelled the tender spring foli- 
age. But the springs babbled gayly, the jays 
chattered, the hemlock-warblers and the wood- 
robins burst impetuously into song, while the 
peepers piped vociferously, forgetting it was 
sunny afternoon and not yet dusk. The fire- 
weed had begun to sprout already. The ap- 
proach to camp was heralded by the tinkling of 
the cow-bell; no mountain ravine is complete 
without a cow-bell tinkling far in the distance. 
The camp was a rambling affair of loose, un- 
planed hemlock boards, built on oak posts, a 
foot or so above ground. Opposite were the 
stables; they must be handy. The summer 
passed in one glorious spell of delight. Fred 
and Celandine and Minnie and all the rest 
thought work was play. It was October before 
Clem Carter would let Mrs. Peterson and her 
household depart for their home. The good 
woman was getting restless ; another week and 
she would have gone huffy like her Irish prede- 
cessor. Carter saw this, and wisely let her go. 


Indian Steps 


363 


He was thinking of another year. The parting 
between Celandine and Fred was affecting, but 
like most affecting partings, wasn’t for long. 
In another week he had quit, and was making 
nightly visits to the Peterson home. His two 
chums quit soon after, and always walked with 
him on Sundays as far as the girl’s home; then 
they turned back, knowing that three or four’s 
a crowd. Early in February the three boys 
returned to the woods to help get ready Jor 
the drive. It was to be twice as big as the 
one last year; four million feet were coming 
down. The Sunday before the big event Fred 
was w T ith his sweetheart. He had a big heart, 
consequently there was room for melancholy in 
it. He spoke about the drive last year, when 
Gus Helgerson lost his life. “ If anything like 
that happened to me, I don’t w r ant you to mind ; 
there’s lots in the world much better than me. 
Take Ben Herman, for instance; he’s worth 
two of me.” Celandine didn’t like such gloomy 
talk, especially as it was a sunshiny afternoon, 
and sunshiny afternoons in early April are al- 
ways appreciated. Celandine dreamed about 
dark water that night; she didn’t like the 


364 


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dream, but said nothing. Driving day came 
around. There was even a bigger crowd around 
the confluence than the year before. There w r as 
a new Methodist preacher; he had never seen 
a drive before, and was eternally asking if 
there were really four million logs coming. 
When they hove in sight it looked as if there 
were twice that number, but the logs bobbed 
so in the rocky bed that each one counted four. 
The drivers wore a far more serious mien than 
they had when the big Swede had gone under. 
“ Gee, it was hard,” they said, “ to tell that 
pretty Peterson girl that Fred Rhoads fell 
in just the same place as Gus Helgerson, and 
we’ll never see him again.” Celandine walked 
home stunned, but she was as brave as only a 
mountain girl could be. Ben Herman and 
Austin Miller quit the drive and spent the 
evening with her. Ben was particularly 
sympathetic and devoted. Probably poor 
Fred’s presentiment had been strong enough 
to make him confide in Ben as well as Celan- 
dine. Bark-peeling time was soon at hand 
again. Clem Carter came personally and 
coaxed Mrs. Peterson to come back to camp, 


Indian Steps 


365 


but she refused. Celandine did not urge her; 
that was the reason. She could not go back 
to the scenes where she had been so happy with 
Fred last summer. Ben came regularly to see 
her, tramping the five miles joyfully. Once he 
asked her if he could take his friend’s place. 
All Celandine would say was, “ Poor Fred said 
you were twice the man he was.” All through 
the fall and winter Ben was attentive; he was 
in dead earnest. He wanted to ease Celandine’s 
lonely heart ; he really loved the girl. “ No 
one could help it,” Austin Miller would say. 
She had half consented to marry him some 
time, when he had to go up the stream to help 
with the drive. lie went away light-hearted, 
so different from poor Fred. Five million feet 
were to make the journey to Williamsport. 
Every one for miles around, even Fred’s 
widowed mother who was struggling along on 
her pension money, Ben’s parents, and Aus- 
tin’s parents, the Methodist preacher, who had 
been sent back again by the Conference, were 
on hand to see the drive go by. “ Bad luck 
seems to follow us,” said one big, brawny 
driver. “ That poor Ben Herman, who was 


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going to get married soon, got hit in the head 
by a log as it bounced over a rock, was stunned 
and went to the bottom.” Celandine walked 
bravely home that afternoon. She had sur- 
vived one buffeting by Fate; she could stand 
another. Austin Miller dropped out of the 
drive and was on hand to comfort her that 
night. Her frightful double loss made her 
cling to him, as the symbol of what had been, 
and what might have been. He did not go to 
work all that summer. He felt it a duty to 
try and brighten her pathway. No girl ever 
tried more to look and act pleasant than she. 
Austin often had admired her beauty; it was 
chastened and more beautiful now, since sor- 
row had touched it so deeply. She was twice 
the girl she was before. Austin loved her 
dearly, and one day in October asked her to 
marry him. “ I cannot marry you now ; I am 
afraid; every man who has had my heart has 
met with an untimely end ; to bestow it on you 
would be to kill you.” Austin was not dis- 
mayed; he kept on with his attentions, which 
were plentifully encouraged. In the spring he 
told her he wanted to take part in the drive. 


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“ I’ll surely be careful, after all that happened 
to my friends.” “ I can’t prevent you, Austin ; 
you know what’s best,” said Celandine sadly, 
“ but do be careful.” The fact that Fred and 
Ben had lost their lives in the drives out of 
Rocky made Austin feel that the percentage 
of chance would favor his escape. Besides, 
he had been idle since April all on account of 
his desire to be near Celandine; he must be 
getting busy again. In his heart he said to 
himself, “ If she’d said she’d marry me I’d 
never have done this.” Celandine loved him 
as much as a heart-broken girl could, but she 
feared to tell him. Over five million feet were 
the quota that year. The same big crowd was 
on hand at the mouth of Rocky, except that 
Fred’s mother was dead and Ben’s parents too 
grief-stricken to witness another drive. Aus- 
tin’s father and mother were anxious to see 
the sight; their boy had come down safely 
with three drives; he could surely make the 
fourth all right. It was a grand clear day 
when the logs started. Austin, full of life and 
vim, was always in the thick of the fray. Not 
a log must stay behind. Sometimes a couple 


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of the boys would attack a single log with their 
cant-hooks so that there would be no danger of 
a delay or jam. Clifford Betts was swinging 
his cant-hook at a stubborn pine log spotted 
with patches of bark like a leopard, that seemed 
out of place in this hemlock concourse, and ac- 
cidentally hit Austin on the head. He lost his 
balance and dropped into the seething current. 
The heavy pine log started, and struck his head 
as he rose to the surface. Other logs repeated 
this, and he was killed before the eyes of his 
“ buddies.” “ This stream’s spooked,” said 
the drivers as they neared the throng of people. 
“Another boy’s been lost; that fine-looking fel- 
low, Austin Miller.” A little further up the 
run Celandine Peterson was walking out the 
ravine to her humble home, sobs shaking her 
slender frame, while hot tears were reddening 
her soulful eyes and smooth, full lips. It was 
all over with her; even the man to whom she 
had never told the story of her love was gone; 
the word love would never cross her lips again 
now. She sat in a kitchen chair all that night, 
rigid, and with mouth compressed. She fought 
grief to a standstill and conquered it. She 


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would not go crazy or become a nervous wreck. 
The next morning she was helping about the 
house, erect, calm, but sad-eyed. Her parents, 
fatalists and of nebulous religious belief, pitied 
her the more because they had no consolation 
to offer. The Methodist preacher called, but 
he found in her a braver woman than he bar- 
gained. She did not need wheedling nor pray- 
ers. That was the last drive out of Kocky. 
That very summer a railway was built clear to 
the three springs that formed the headwaters, 
and a big sawmill erected where Clem Carter’s 
camp had stood. There is a modest graveyard 
on a hill overlooking a patch of dead water 
on Pine Creek. It is shaded by a weeping 
willow and several choke-cherry trees. In one 
of the corners are three small white-pine 
boards, stuck in the earth like headstones. 
There are no names on them, no marks to tell 
their story. In front of them and around them 
grow a profusion of spring and summer flow- 
ers, yellow, purple, crimson; jonquils, iris, 
poppies, that seem to be always blooming. 
Often in the late afternoons the slim figure of 
a blonde woman, still young, comes and sits 


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on the grass beside them. She brings fresh 
flowers, and occasionally buries her head 
among the blossoms. She is telling the story 
of how the world is going, the story of her own 
love, to these empty graves, of how she could 
have made three friends supremely happy, yet 
cannot be happy herself. 


XXI. 


A ROCK OF AGES 

MOXG the many accomplish- 
ments of Pipsisseway, the great 
King of the Susquehanah In- 
dians, was his fondness for art. 
As an art patron he encouraged 
many young designers and filled 
his broad domain with examples 
of their work. Nature had out- 
in making his kingdom, with its 
lofty mountain ranges, vast forests, lakes, 
waterfalls, rivers, and streams. Pipsisseway 
felt that while art could never excel Nature’s 
handicraft, it might exist side by side with it, 
and develop an aesthetic sense among his sub- 
jects. Accordingly he set an army of artists 
at work. Colossal statues, like the famed 
“ giantess of McElhattan” which was uncov- 
ered in the bed of McElhattan Run after the 
flood of 1865; huge faces cut out of project- 
ing rocks like the “ stone faces” near Selins- 

grove, near Bloomsburg, near Halifax and on 

371 



done herself 


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Spruce Creek; and decorations like those on 
the “ Picture Bocks” in Lycoming County, were 
completed under his supervision. It has come 
down to us that there were one hundred “ stone 
faces” completed during his reign, which lasted 
but twelve years. To-day but four or five, no- 
tably those near Halifax and Bloomsburg, exist 
in a recognizable condition. The first white 
settlers, on beholding these marvellous works, 
were content to say, “ Nature did it,” and in- 
quire no further. Scientists descended from 
these settlers accepted the old theories, and 
passed them on to the general public. If any 
one questioned, and suggested that they might 
have been done by Indians, the men of science 
would point to their irregular proportions as 
proof of their conclusions. But they should 
have considered that time, and the attendant 
disintegration of the rocks, which were in the 
most part soft, could have made an eye smaller 
on one side than on another; an ear missing 
altogether, or a nostril pushed out of shape. 
Pipsisseway’s sculptors made the huge “ stone 
faces” in the Pennsylvania mountains, but as 
Homer and Shakespeare are called myths, they 


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373 


rest in oblivion in good company. Pipsisseway 
contended that a stone face peering from a 
rocky cliff gave “ personality” to the landscape. 
Modern landscape architects feel similarly 
when they erect a summer-house or tower on a 
conspicuous height. These stone faces were 
carved to represent distinguished ancestors of 
the great monarch, and one or two were por- 
traits of Pipsisseway himself, or his brothers, 
or some of the leading chieftains in his victory 
over the Kishoquoquilas at the Indian Steps. 
The “ stone face” in Spruce Creek Valley is 
said to be Pipsisseway, typifying that his race 
were forever on the watch as the rulers of the 
disputed territory. In addition to these colos- 
sal statues, smaller pieces of delicate design 
were executed. Sculpture for a time lessened 
interest in the pottery works at the royal en- 
campment, located on the present site of 
Wayne Township, Clinton County, which had 
reached a state of great perfection. Every- 
thing must be hewn out of stone; it showed 
more skill than if moulded by the hands. Pip- 
sisseway’s favorite sculptor was a young In- 
dian named Wiconisko. There is a beautiful 


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stream of that name in Dauphin County, but 
he was probably named after it, and not the 
stream after him. Indians of ordinary birth 
were often named from the places where they 
were born. At the time of the great victory 
over the Kishoquoquilas, Wiconisko was about 
twenty years of age, but most precocious in 
his artistic talents. Like many artists, he was 
of lowly birth, the son of a shad-fisherman, and 
his early education was even more limited than 
that of the average Indian of his time. Some 
of his little statues carved out of common lime- 
stone were brought to Pipsisseway’s attention. 
The great King admired them, and ordered that 
the youth be brought before him at once. When 
he appeared, he found him to be handsome and 
intelligent, his genius overshadowing his lack 
of education. He was given a retired spot by 
the river bank, near the royal camp grounds, 
to carry on his artistic endeavors, and a dozen 
servants to assist him. Pipsisseway was full 
of ideas, and nearly every day came in person 
to the sylvan studio or sent word about some 
new figure or group that he wanted chiseled. 
So many of Wiconisko’s dainty statuettes were 


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375 


grouped about the royal lodge-house that Pip- 
sisseway’s young Queen, Meadow Sweet, ex- 
pressed a desire to meet the young sculptor and 
see him at work. “ He must be inspired by 
the Gods,” she said; “no one has ever lived 
who could perform such wonders in stone.” 
One bright afternoon the king and queen, ac- 
companied by their personal suite, surprised 
the young sculptor in the midst of his labors. 
He was overcome by the sight of the two rulers 
of the realm, and fell down on the earth in 
grateful obeisance. He was commanded to 
rise, and treated with the kindliest consider- 
ation by his royal visitors. Wiconisko was 
only a few years older than Queen Meadow 
Sweet, so the nearness in their ages made her 
take an added interest in his productions. 
King and Queen were so much pleased with 
what they saw that they tarried until the sun 
had sunk almost to the summit of the Quinn’s 
Run Mountain. When they departed the 
Queen smiled genially at Wiconisko. After 
that the young sculptor’s lot was more secure 
than ever. He was sent to the Spruce Creek 
Valley to carve out the colossal head of the 


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conquering Pipsisseway; lie superintended the 
decorations of the “ Picture Rocks,” and other 
important commissions. The other sculptors 
and artists would have become jealous, and 
murdered the young fellow, but that by com- 
mon consent they considered him too much 
their superior to conflict with them. Nature 
had indeed been kind with Wiconisko. He was 
young, he was singularly handsome, he pos- 
sessed immortal genius. Though he was not 
tall, his features were unusually well-cut and 
proportioned, and his slight figure lithe and 
active. Many Indian maidens of high degree 
fancied him, but he seemed to be entirely ob- 
livious of the female sex. “ He is in love with 
his work,” they would exclaim in their despair. 
One Indian maid is said to have drowned her- 
self in the eddy near his workshop. He never 
shed a tear when her bedraggled body was 
rescued and brought to him. “ He will never 
marry,” the Indian soothsayers told the 
love-sick girls who besieged them. In the 
midst of his greatest triumphs his generous 
patron Pipsisseway breathed his last. This 
was a great blow to the entire artistic coterie, 


Indian Steps 


377 


as they rightly imagined that the “ golden age” 
of Susquehanah art would come to an end. 
Meadow Sweet announced that all her late 
King’s favorite ideas and policies would be 
carried out; that art should be properly en- 
couraged ; but the artists had their fears never- 
theless. One of her first visits after the poig- 
nant period of her grief had passed was to 
Wiconisko’s workshop. Attired all in white, 
according to the Susquehanah custom of 
mourning, and with a veil of filmy material over 
her face, she bespoke grief in its most spiritual 
and refined form. Wiconisko could not sup- 
press his delight at seeing her, and tried to 
make her stay as pleasant as the circumstances 
would permit. She explained to him that she 
wanted him to erect a colossal, full-length 
statue of Pipsisseway in warrior’s regalia on 
the summit of the highest mountain in the vi- 
cinity of the encampment. “ 1 think that is the 
mountain the sun sets back of,” replied the 
sculptor. “A statue there would attract atten- 
tion on every side, especially when illuminated 
by the rich colors of thedeclining orb.” Meadow 
Sweet acquiesced; it was clear that this was 


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not only the highest but the most noticeable 
mountain in the region of the camp. Work 
was to commence as soon as a monolith of 
sufficient size and suitable material could be 
obtained. Although the statue was never 
built, the mountain became known as “ Mount 
Pipsisseway” until the first settlers changed it 
to the “ Hog Back Mountain” or “ Quinn’s Run 
Mountain.” But its fairest, dearest name is 
“ The Mountain that the sun sets back of.” 
For once in his career Wiconisko could not 
muster enough energy to set out to find the 
monolith. A week of inertia passed; daily re- 
ports were brought to Meadow Sweet that he 
had not started, and she grieved considerably. 
“ Why,” she reasoned to herself, “ can’t he be- 
gin this work, after all the kindnesses that 
Pipsisseway bestowed upon him?” Several 
times she thought she would visit the work- 
shop to find out the true reason of his slowness, 
but prudence forbid. Wiconisko, in his heart, 
was as sorry as Meadow Sweet that he could 
not bring himself to begin the journey, but he 
was forced to admit to himself that he loved 
the widowed Queen, and could not carve a 


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379 


figure of her late husband. He had fallen 
in love with her the afternoon when she first 
visited his workshop in company with Pipsisse- 
way, but it had remained a smouldering spark 
until the great monarch’s death. With that 
event, and the visit of the beautiful widow to 
the studio, it had burst into intense flame, more 
fiery and furious than the sunsets back of Hog 
Back Mountain. If he would die for it, he 
could not start away and leave her; he would 
not glorify her late husband with a colossal 
statue, even though he had been his best friend 
and patron. It might be, he reasoned with his 
over excited imagination, that Meadow Sweet 
cared for him; if he was sure of that, she 
could understand his disinclination to go 
ahead with his commission. He must tell her 
of his love, come what may. She had smiled 
at him when she visited the workshop with her 
husband ; she had come to see him on her first 
public appearance after Pipsisseway’s demise. 
She might care for him; why not? He was 
young, good-looking, a genius— he was only her 
inferior in birth, but what was that? Along 
these purposeless lines the love sick sculptor 


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argued with himself, and against himself. At 
length he summoned up courage to visit his 
royal patroness. The lodge-house which she 
occupied was carefully guarded, to ensure 
privacy, but the august guardsmen fell back 
when they saw the young sulptor approaching. 
This gave him renewed courage — his instinct 
told him he would be welcomed. The royal 
hand maidens ushered him into the presence 
of his beloved and withdrew. The Queen was 
seated on a dais, on a mass of fawn-skins, clad 
all in white, with the filmy veil falling over her 
face. Through it, the mobile, spirituelle fea- 
tures were barely discernible. Wiconisko 
bowed low, and the Queen with a friendly ges- 
ture bade him to be seated. This was an un- 
precendented honor, and further aggrandized 
his courage. Meadow Sweet began the con- 
versation, as was the custom, expressing regret 
that he had not found it convenient to go in 
search of a monolith from which to carve the 
statue of the departed monarch, Pipsisseway. 
“ He thought so much of you, Wiconisko, ” said 
the Queen, impressively. With these words 
the sculptor’s courage almost entirely deserted 


Indian Steps 


381 


him ; it would have been better for him had 
it all gone. He could not commence his care- 
fully prepared speech, but sat silently, facing 
the Queen. After a few minutes he regained his 
composure and spoke his heart directly. “ Oh, 
fairest Queen,” he began, “ I did not begin that 
statue of our lamented monarch because — be- 
cause I loved you — I loved you the first time I 
saw you when you came to the studio with your 
husband and smiled on me.” Meadow Sweet’s 
dark eyes fairly blazed through the veil; but 
she controlled herself admirably. “ You ; you 
Imve been in love with me since that afternoon 
I came to your studio with Pipsisseway ?” she 
demanded. “ I have,” replied the sculptor, 
trembling like a leaf, for he knew that his 
dream was shattered. “ Then I am utterly dis- 
appointed in you,” said the Queen ; “ if I 

smiled on you, I don’t recall it ; I have a habit, 
I fear, of showing too much approval, but it is 
never personal. You can withdraw from my 
presence at once, and I will give you until 
dawn to-morrow to leave the regal encamp- 
ment.” Wiconisko rose to his feet, and backed 
out of the royal presence, shivering like a 


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whipped dog. With bowed head he passed be- 
tween the double line of sentinels, a very dif- 
ferent being from what he had been twenty 
minutes before. A few minutes can transform 
a man completely. Life had found its mean- 
ing to Wiconisko when he first saw Meadow 
Sweet; now through her its meaning had been 
lost. He was like a person who had approached 
a locked door and discovered that he had lost 
the key. When he reached his workshop his 
eyes rested upon a small block of dark ganister. 
Seizing it, he reached for his chisels, and be- 
gan carving a statuette to divert his grief. 
He never worked so dextrously nor so fast. 
Within an hour he had turned the block into a 
seated figure of Queen Meadow Sweet, com- 
plete even to the veil covering her exquisitely 
lovely face. It was surely his masterpiece, 
for it was carved out of love, not out of stone. 
When it was finished he eyed it critically, 
smiling a cynical smile of satisfied vanity. If 
he could not have Meadow Sweet in the flesh, 
his powers enabled him to reproduce her in 
stone. He tucked the statuette under his arm, 
and picked up a couple of implements for grub- 


Indian Steps 


383 


bing and digging which rested against an old 
oak nearby. Thus equipped, he started out a 
path which led to the higher ground back of 
the encampment. At the edge of this rise he 
stopped, and reverently laid down the statu- 
ette. He began digging and picking and soon 
nad a respectable sized excavation. Hunting 
around until he found a number of flat stones, 
he walled, floored, and roofed the cavity. On 
top he threw the dirt on thick, and covered it 
with sods. He had left an opening large 
enough for a human being to crawl through. 
After some search he discovered a stone large 
enough to block this entrance, and placing the 
statuette under his arm, and dragging the tools 
after him he pulled himself into the pit. Once 
inside he drew the flat rock against the open- 
ing, a voluntary prisoner. He lit a pine torch 
and stuck it in a crevice in the rocks, and it 
burned until the oxygen was exhausted. 
Wiconisko placed himself in a sitting posture, 
putting the statuette before him where his eyes 
could feast upon it. Then he took out his 
scalping knife and severed the arteries in his 
wrists. Life flickered out about the same time 


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as the pine torch ; death and the statuette were 
together in grim gloom and silence. Two cen- 
turies and a quarter had to pass before an un- 
looked-for judgment day transpired. Adam 
Steck, one of the hardy pioneers of Wayne 
Township, was ploughing in his recently 
cleared “ back lot.” There was a slight mound 
at the far end that might have been caused by 
a depressed boulder or the burrowings of some 
animal. Heading his team of oxen in the di- 
rection of the barrow, he drove the plough- 
share through the centre of it. There was a 
rumbling and a crumbling, and the plough 
sank out of sight up to the tips of the wooden 
handles. Stopping the ungainly oxen, he 
dragged the plough out on the bank, and be- 
gan investigating. Lifting the flat stones and 
sods away, he came upon a skeleton in a sitting 
posture in an excellent state of preservation. 
In front of it was a small stone statue of a 
female, on a pedestal, with a veil over her face, 
dextrously carved and exquisitely beautiful. 
There were also the remnants of a couple of 
Indian implements in the barrow. The tools 
interested him, as did the statuette, but the 




f 



A PENNSYLVANIA MOUNTAIN SUN SET 





Indian Steps 


385 


ugly skeleton filled liim with disgust. Quickly 
covering the cavity with earth and stones, he 
reburied all that was left of Wiconisko, to 
await a further day of judgment. Adam Steck 
quit ploughing for that afternoon. He took 
the implements and the little figure to his 
home along the river bank, where his family 
viewed them with open-mouthed curiosity. 
The hired boys told the story at the post-office 
that night, and soon all Wayne was aware of 
the “ find.” Many came to see the curios, and 
old legends of the Indian encampment which 
stood on the site of Wayne Township were re- 
vived. “ Some one ought to have that figure 
who could appreciate it,” said Adam one day. 
A distinguished visitor from Jersey Shore took 
him at his word, and asked for it on condition 
that later he present it to the Museum at Lan- 
caster. And that institution became the rest- 
ing place for a time of the effigy of Meadow 
Sweet, true wife and loyal widow of Pipsisse- 
way, the great war chief of the Susquehanahs. 
Eternity is long; the greater part of it 
Wiconisko must spend far from any sign or 
token of the woman he had no right to love. 


XXII. 


SHE KNEW THE POET 

LONG Penn’s Creek, between 
Zerby and Coburn, is still stand- 
ing a splendid forest of original 
timber, white pine and white 
hemlock principally. The high- 
way from Spring Mills to Co- 
burn runs on the north side of 
the creek, and affords the 
traveller an excellent view of the giant timber. 
There is one point where there are several small 
clearings, and log-houses, one of them inhabited 
by David Frantz, the old-time wolf-hunter of 
the Seven Mountains. A short distance below 
this a road branches off from the main thor- 
oughfare, and crosses by a narrow span the 
turbulent waters of the creek. At the cross- 
roads stands a sign-board with the finger point- 
ing to the mountain. On its neatly painted 
white surface is the single word, “ Povalley.” 
This, translated into modern phraseology, 

means that the road leads to Poe Valley. But 
386 



Indian Steps 


387 


the spelling “ Poe” is also incorrect, as the 
valley was probably named for Daniel Poh, a 
Pennsylvania-German frontiersman, who took 
up considerable land in this locality. If you 
cross the bridge and follow the mountain road, 
especially in latter- June, a rare treat lies in 
store. The mammoth evergreen trees com- 
pletely arch the road, while huge rhododen- 
drons ( rhodendendron maximum ), some of 
them nearly forty feet high and blooming 
luxuriantly, perfume the way with their wax- 
like blossoms. Along the road sides tufts of 
Pennsylvania tea are getting ready to open 
forth their feathery white flowers, beloved of 
the bees. Every half mile pure, gurgling springs 
are met with, their trickling overplus keeping 
the road always damp, even in the dryest 
spells. The jungle is so dark that the crickets 
make music all day. Fourteen years ago, when 
the writer first crossed into “ Povalley,” the 
scenery was even wilder and more primeval. 
Last summer the bark-peelers began devastat- 
ing the mountain top, turning its color from 
moss green to a grizzly brown. The heavy 
bark-wagons and log-sleds have since then worn 


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great deep ruts into the hitherto smooth, loamy 
road. But it is a wilderness nevertheless, as 
near to the primeval as the Eastern States af- 
ford. Life and scenery are pretty much as 
they were sixty years ago in this remote corner. 
Wild life is still abundant — a stray panther 
or two are said to wander about their old 
haunts ; now and then a “ mountain nightin- 
gale,” a black wolf barks at the icy moon; 
wildcats (lynx rufus) and catamounts (lynx 
canadensis ) are fairly abundant. I will never 
forget a sight witnessed when crossing from 
Poe Valley one lowery summer afternoon. 
There had been a storm, and the horses waded 
fetlock deep in slush. We had come into a 
vast open country where all the timber, ex- 
cepting oak saplings and a few mature yellow 
pines, had been removed. Out of a thicket 
flew two superb golden eagles so near to us that 
the whirring of their wings frightened the 
horses on which we rode. The majestic birds 
shot upwards with the velocity of biplanes, 
until almost reaching the level of the storm 
clouds. Then they began soaring, covering 
tremendous circles in their flight. Masters of 


Indian Steps 


389 


the high air, they surveyed the paltry earth be- 
low to their satisfaction, and disappeared from 
sight in the storm clouds. I imagined them 
circling triumphantly above the storm. It 
was the most magnificent picture I have ever 
seen in nature. Where the road begins its 
descent into Poe Valley, the first glimpse of a 
stately old brick mansion, half-hidden behind 
apple trees, situated almost at the foot of the 
mountain, is obtained. It attracts attention 
immediately because of its tall chimneys and 
“ hip” or New England roof. There isn’t an- 
other roof like it on a dwelling in all the val- 
leys. I was not surprised when my companion, 
who knew the valleys well, told me that it had 
been built by a Massachusetts man named 
Haskins. The New Englander had not lived 
much longer than to complete it, and after his 
death it passed into the hands of a family 
named Walters, who owned it for three 
generations. My friend had gone to school 
at New Berlin with one of the boys of the fam- 
ily some years before, so we decided to stop 
there before continuing our trip into the valley. 
Besides, my friend wanted me to meet the 


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old lady, Mrs. Helena Halit, an aunt of the 
Walters boys, who once knew the renowned 
poet, Edgar Allan Poe. What was more, the 
famous writer when a young man had made a 
trip from Philadelphia to the valley bearing 
his name, in the vain search for a heritage, as 
he believed himself to be a grand-nephew of 
the frontiersman, Daniel Poh or Poe. It was 
during this trip that he met Helena Walters, 
afterwards Mrs. Halit, and had formed a ro- 
mantic attachment for her. The prospect of 
meeting a sweetheart of the impressionable 
poet, whose writings at that time — I was a 
Freshman at college — were making a profound 
impression on me, made me want to tarry all 
the more at the old mansion back of the apple 
trees. We tied our old horse Frank to the 
rusty, warped iron fence, and entered the yard, 
overgrown with untrimmed apple trees and 
boxwoods. We had barely gotten to the cor- 
ner of the house when Ben Walters, the young 
man we were looking for, appeared, greeting us 
warmly. He escorted us to a sidle porch, 
shaded by an old virgilia tree, gave us rocking 
chairs and brought out some home-made ice 


Indian Steps 


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cream for our refreshment. At first the con- 
versation related to old school days at New 
Berlin, and then my companion pointedly 
asked young Walters if his aunt, who had 
known Edgar Allan Poe, was at home. “ She 
certainly is; she’s sitting on the porch on the 
other side of the house. She’s nearly always 
at home; sometimes she will take a notion to 
visit friends at Coburn or Hartley Hall. Her 
travelling days are coming to an end, I am 
sorry to say ; all her old friends are dying, and 
she’s not as active as she was; she’s now past 
seventy-eight.” Before being presented to the 
interesting lady, I asked the young man to tell 
me the story, as best he could, of Poe’s love- 
episode in this secluded valley. From what he 
told me it seemed that several Poes had died 
old bachelors, leaving hundreds of acres of 
timber and farming land to be divided among 
more or less remote relatives. Edgar Allan 
Poe, who was somewhere between twenty-seven 
and twenty-nine years old— his birthday was 
a movable feast— was at this period on the 
staff of a Philadelphia newspaper. He heard 
of his wealthy namesakes, and upon informa- 


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tion that the late Daniel Poe was his great 
uncle he started out to seek his inheritance. 
In Philadelphia jealous literary colleagues 
gave it out that “ poor Poe had gone off on 
another of his sprees.” In reality, this and 
many other trips were taken to improve his 
material condition, and not to indulge any 
taste for liquor. By canal, stage and on foot 
he reached Poe Valley, and put up for the night 
at the Walters mansion. The family had come 
from Berks County the year before, and every- 
thing about the place looked new and attrac- 
tive. Helena Walters was then a girl of eigh- 
teen years, very slim, straight, and blonde, the 
very ideal of the susceptible poet. He became 
very much enamored of her the moment he saw 
her, and she seemed to take an interest in the 
young stranger. It was not an interest that 
sprang from the heart, as she was already 
secretly bethrothed to Abram Halit, the son 
of a prosperous farmer living on the opposite 
side of the valley. She had no especial pre- 
dilection for literature, but her nature was 
sympathetic and naive, which appealed im- 
mensely to the poet. Tired as he must have 


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been after a fifteen -mile tramp from Hartley 
Hall, he sat with her until midnight on the 
porch where the old lady has since spent so 
many hours. The old folks had gone to bed 
on the promise that Helena would soon follow, 
but she wanted to stay up and listen to the 
young man’s marvellous tales of the big world. 
In some ways he was “ different.” He was a 
most engaging talker, and even the full moon 
stopped to listen poised on the tree-tops, she 
said, so pleasing were his little bits of worldly 
wisdom. That night he must have gone to bed 
happy, one of the few nights of such a nature 
in his stormy career. The next day he pre- 
tended to be looking up information concern- 
ing the inheritance, but he did not get very 
far away from the Walters mansion. That 
evening he expected to spend blissfully with 
Helena, but a complication arose by the appear- 
ance of her fiance, Abram Halit. The poet 
tried to converse, but his brain was chilled by 
the presence of the third party, and he went 
upstairs at nine o’clock. The next morning 
when the family went to make his bed they 
found all the slats broken ; he had tossed about 


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all night in sleepless misery. During the morn* 
ing he pursued his inquiries concerning family 
matters, but after dinner asked Helena to go 
for a walk with him. They started up the 
mountain road — among the rhododendrons— 
that was about the only way they could go, and 
he confided to her, so she said, that he loved 
her, and wanted her to come away with him 
into the big world. Whether his biographies 
state that he had a wife does not matter here — • 
the dates are uncertain ; he might not have 
been married at this time. Fortunately for the 
future peace and happiness of Helena, she did 
not see any extraordinary reasons why she 
should abandon the stalwart Abram Halit for 
the small, slight, ardent, blue-eyed youth by 
her side. “ I cannot see why I should love you 
more than my fiance,” she said ; “ I am per- 
fectly satisfied with his love; he is all that I 
require.” “ But I am different,” replied the 
young writer. “ I am a poet.” But the word 
poet did not convey as much meaning to 
Helena as if he had said that he was a horse- 
man, an axeman, or a wolf-killer. “ I have 
always loved Abram,” she persisted ; “ I could 


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never love another.” “ I am your chance to 
move out into the big world, where you deserve 
to shine as the wife of a poet,” said the young 
man, in final entreaty. But Helena, woman- 
like, was obdurate. The young poet looked at 
her sadly, and took from his pocket a slender 
volume. It was called “ Tamerlane and Other 
Poems.” He handed it to her saying, “ That 
is what I am; I can say no more.” She took 
the book, glancing through its pages hastily, 
but there was no air of understanding in her 
manner. It was not her destiny to go or 
shine. The poet held out his hand to say 
good-bve. “ I will go now ; I will not return 
for my valise. I have lost all I came to the 
valley to find; but I will never, never forget 
you; my spirit will often return and be with 
you.” Helena looked at him blankly; she had 
never heard such talk from man before; it 
really was a good idea he was going away, he 
was odd. Too surprised to urge him to at 
least remain long enough to secure his baggage, 
she allowed him to leave her on the mountain 
road, and disappear from view among the ever- 
greens and laurels. Nearly a year passed and 


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she was making her final preparations to marry 
Abram Halit. A small package came to her 
by post; might it be a wedding gift? She 
opened it; it contained a curiously carved sil- 
ver locket, and woven inside was a lock of ash- 
brown hair. It will be recalled that when Poe, 
at the age of eighteen, enlisted in the U. S. 
Army as a private soldier, he was described 
as having “ brown hair, blue eyes, fair com- 
plexion.” Helena viewed the missive with as- 
tonishment; she very naturally showed it to 
her lover. They both laughed a little about it ; 
then it was laid away in the dresser, where it 
remained for fifty years. On the date ap- 
pointed Helena Walters was married to Abram 
Halit, and the union proved a happy one. Sev- 
eral years afterwards the post brought the 
contented wife another small volume. It was 
called “ Tales of the Arabesque and Grotesque.” 
She remembered she had lost the other book 
he gave her when they parted. She laid this 
one on the parlor table unread, and as the 
donor sent no address, it was never even ac- 
knowledged. Seven years after the parting on 
the mountain road, an envelope came by mail, 


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addressed in a hand as fine as copperplate. 
Helena opened it; and found a piece of poetry 
written in the same exquisite hand; it was 
called “ The Raven.” She read the first stanza ; 
it seemed very ponderous and tiresome. She 
laid it wearily between the pages of “ Tales of 
the Arabesque and Grotesque,” to slumber for 
half a century. A few years after this Abram 
Halit died, and once,' while poring over the 
“ Family Monitor” she read the brief announce- 
ment of the “ Death of the poet, Edgar A. Poe, 
author of The Raven.” That was the name of 
the piece he had sent her, she recollected. Years 
passed when she never thought of her strange 
early love except on days when she dusted the 
copy of “ Tales of the Arabesque and Gro- 
tesque,” which lay on the marble-topped parlor 
table. Poe’s spirit must only have visited the 
valley on cleaning days ! Her brothers, younger 
than she, married and reared families ; some of 
the boys and girls went to academies and col- 
leges, where they accumulated much culture. 
Wherever they went they heard of Edgar Allan 
Poe. That seemed a very familiar name; it 
was first of all the name of the valley where 


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they lived; but it was also the name of the 
author of the dingy little book which lay un- 
read on the parlor table. What was the con- 
nection? Aunt Helena would know. She told 
them willingly, and they were amazed. A 
chapter in the life of America’s greatest poet 
had happened in their own home. It had just 
missed sliding into oblivion unrecorded. They 
talked so much of Poe, and what their teachers 
thought of him, that the old lady began to take 
herself more seriously than formerly. School 
friends of the young people wanted to meet her 
because she knew the poet. I had expressed 
the same desire for the same reason. We 
opened the door leading to the porch where 
she sat rather quickly, so I had a good chance 
to study her face before she noticed us. De- 
spite her advanced years her skin was almost 
free from wrinkles; there was a defiant curve 
to her aquiline nose, a far-away light in her 
pale blue eyes ; a certain archness to her some- 
what shrunken lips; all traces of “ the glory 
that was Greece, of the grandeur that was 
Home.” In her day she could readily have 
been loved by any poet; but she could never 


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mentally reciprocate. I told her how glad I 
was to meet some one who had known my 
favorite poet, who was America’s greatest 
literary genius. She smiled with approval, not 
at the words I said, but at the reverential tones 
of my voice. I complimented her on her ex- 
cellent appearance, and turned sadly away. 
Ilers had been a beautiful mask, with skeleton 
steel within. Last July a year, I was tempted 
by the familiar signboard pointing to “ Poval- 
ley,” and let old Arab take me there. It was a 
delicious ride at sundown under the giant ever- 
greens, past rhododendron tangles, and gushing 
springs. Myriad crickets were chorusing 
shrilly. On the summit where I had seen the 
eagles pierce the storm clouds, vast stretches 
of mountain twilight calmed my senses. Where 
the road turns down from the plateau I saw 
the tall chimneys and the “ New England” roof 
of the Walters mansion — alas, now deserted. 
Most of the ancient apple trees were dead from 
the scale; some one had maliciously cut down 
the virgilia tree; the trunk and skeleton 
branches half -hidden in the tall grass re- 
sembled a prostrate elephant in one of Col. 


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Roosevelt’s hunting pictures ; the boxwoods 
were sere and broken, the iron fence all fallen, 
the yard deep with viper’s bugloss, daisies and 
poke-weeds. Silent and empty the old house 
had its charm ; once a fair occupant had 
touched infinity there, but in the darkness had 
mistaken the rustle of an angel’s wing. 


XXIII. 


BATTALION DAYS 

HE DAY was raw and overcast, 
typical of late March. Rain, 
cold and sleety, came by spells. 
The dull grey river was high, 
well up to the level of the banks, 
and dotted with “ white-caps” 

from the sharp winds. The 

red birches and willows along 
shore swayed and shivered; nature was in a 
state of unrest in the last hours of her winter- 
long sleep. The old brick house above the 
ferry loomed tall and forbidding, with closed 
blinds and bolted storm doors. On the road 
that led from the house to the stable stood a 
bedraggled-looking hearse, and several “ cabs” 
on which drivers strove to doze despite the 
wintry blasts. The lugubrious black horses 

held their long wet tails between their legs, 
sullenly patient and submissive. Death was in 
the old brick, and the funeral services soon 

would begin. Outside the kitchen door 

401 



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crouched the dead man’s favorite hunting dog. 
He had barked all the night when his master 
died, but had been silent and sad-eyed ever 
since. The Norway spruces in the front yard 
drooped their branches at times; they seemed 
to betoken grief when not battling the unsym- 
pathetic north wind. Every few minutes the 
kitchen door would open, and black-garbed 
men, stiff and uncomfortable looking, would 
peer out as if to see if any more carriages were 
coming. The services were about commencing 
when some one noticed an old-fashioned broad- 
tread buggy pulled by a huge draft horse plow- 
ing its way along the river road in the direction 
of the mansion. “ Better wait a minute or 
two,” said one of the sons of the deceased; 
“ looks as if more were coming.” And the 
volunteer choir laid down their hymnals. It 
seemed an interminable time before the top 
buggy drew up in front of the brick mansion. 
An old man, white-bearded and of military 
bearing, got out, and walked up the path. One 
of the sons of the deceased came out of the 
side door, and with serious face, greeted the 
aged visitor saying, “ How are you, General 9 ” 


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The old man replied, “ Too bad about the 
Major; we shall miss him very much.” Then 
the two men went in the house, and the ser- 
vices began. Of all the mourners none was 
more sincere than the General. His friendship 
for the late Major had lasted over fifty years, 
when they were companions-in-arms in the old 
Battalion Days. These Battalions, which were 
the forerunners of the present National Guard, 
wielded a potent influence and turned out some 
well-equipped soldiers. Officers and men from 
these early organizations proved highly effi- 
cient in the Civil War. Many wondered how 
officers who lacked the West Point training 
displayed such innate military knowledge. 
There were some things that West Point didn't 
know that the old Battalions taught. The 
companies and “ regiments” bore distinctive 
names, such as the Brush Valley Blues, the 
Sugar Valley Greys, the West Branch Light 
Artillery and the like. Their uniforms were 
as distinctive as their names. Local pride ran 
high, and sometimes during reviews or sham- 
battles real bloodshed was narrowly averted. 
They were like the present National Guard 


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plus fifty per cent, more snap, minus fifty per 
cent, of tiresome routine. The Civil War 
marked the passing of the Battalions, and until 
we have another war of like magnitude the 
efficiency of the new regime cannot be tested. 
It was nearly sixty years ago when the famous 
review took place at Williamsport that was 
participated in by most of the Battalions in 
the central and western parts of the Common- 
wealth. The Governor and his cabinet, several 
United States Army officers, prominent vet- 
erans of the Mexican War, and a foreign dip- 
lomat or two from Washington made up the 
reviewing party. There were also the families 
of these worthies, and the wives, mothers, sis- 
ters and sweethearts of the Battalion officers. 
There were also the “ multitude” who came 
out of patriotism, curiosity or relationship to 
the “ rankers” in the Battalions. The spec- 
tators in their quaint costumes were almost 
as picturesque and showy as the soldiery them- 
selves. The grand pageant was held on the 
“ flats” below town, being blessed by an un- 
usually clear, sparkling day. The gay uni- 
forms and side arms gleamed in the sunlight; 


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the grandeur of it all was imperial rather than 
democratic. But underneath the gaudy show, 
there was a solid basis of democracy, as that 
wide and sickeningly foolish social gulf which 
now separates officers from “ non corns” and 
privates, did not exist. All were drawn from 
the same wood ; distinctions of rank were tem- 
porary to the parade-ground and armory. No 
sham battle took place this day; it was a gen- 
eral gathering together or muster of strength, 
and not a display of “ Dutch bluster.” The 
General of later days, and the future Major, 
whose funeral it was his duty to attend, were 
at the time of this grand review both young 
lieutenants— the Major in the Sugar Valley 
Greys and the General in the West Branch 
Artillery. Earlier in life they had been class- 
mates at New Berlin. Both had brought their 
sweethearts and families to see the display, 
which was the grandest event in the annals of 
Central Pennsylvania military history. The 
Major’s sweetheart was a serious-minded girl, 
whom he afterwards married, while the Gen- 
eral’s was a bright-eyed, daring girl, one of his 
many romantic attachments, but she was not 


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the person lie eventually wed. She was de- 
voted to him, absolutely, and why marriage 
failed to crown their romance, is only another 
of the unfathomable mysteries of courtship. 
Many as had been her admirers, she was cold 
and haughty with them all until she met the 
young lieutenant of the West Branch Artillery. 
With him she was a different girl ; her great 
love had subdued her defiant, spirited nature. 
Among her past admirers was a captain in the 
Oak Valley Dragoons, the gayest-looking or- 
ganization that existed in Pennsylvania. Re- 
cruited from among the sons of prosperous 
farmers in one of the richest and most beauti- 
ful valleys, they represented in the main, fine 
types of manhood. Their mounts were home- 
bred horses, big, powerful beasts of a kind that 
are produced no more, and more’s the pity, in 
our State. They were the final outcropping 
of the now extinct Conestoga breed, but the 
admixture of Morgan and thoroughbred blood 
gave them a fineness and suppleness not pos- 
sessed by the true Conestogas. This captain of 
the Oak Valley Dragoons, though repulsed long 
ago in his assault on the heart of the Artiller- 


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ist’s dashing sweetheart, was grieved none the 
less when he saw her at the review as the guest 
of another officer. She should have attended 
the review with him, he fancied, because she 
lived in Youngmanstown, just across the moun- 
tains from Oak Valley. He rode his powerful 
red roan stallion up close to where she was 
sitting and bowed obsequiously. She didn’t 
pay much attention to him, which nettled him 
completely. This was augmented when he 
noticed the lieutenant in the Artillery in close 
conversation with her. The Dragoon was a 
small, oddly-built fellow, and would have been 
no match for his rival from the West Branch 
in a scuffle, so revenge must lie elsewhere. With 
furtive, restless eyes he kept watch on his 
rival ; he knew he would even the score before 
sundown. He was especially angered when his 
horse ran away and had to be stopped by one 
of the artillerymen in full view of his cold- 
hearted charmer from Youngmanstown. This 
was an added reason for revenge. He must 
show her that artillerymen were far from per- 
fect; they also made mistakes in tactics and 
horsemanship. As the day progressed and the 


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faultless evolutions of the artillery won much 
applause, the heart of the Dragoon captain 
boiled hotter and hotter with hate. The Dra- 
goons made a fine showing, and were loudly 
cheered, but he, their captain, had made a fool 
of himself by letting his horse run off; no 
enconiums could counteract that. It might, 
if the artillery also displayed some unhappy 
blunder. It seemed a long while until he could 
turn the tables. At every period of rest he 
sat moodily on his charger, perhaps brooding 
over that strange decree of Fate that compels 
one who would make another ridiculous to first 
show off foolishly himself. This part of his 
bargain with Fate had surely taken place; the 
revenge part must come soon. The afternoon 
was practically over, and many of the spec- 
tators who had come from more distant points 
had departed, when the chance presented. The 
artillerymen were at parade rest and the Gov- 
ernor with his distinguished party were shak- 
ing hands with some of the military authorities 
in charge of the display, preparatory to enter- 
ing their coaches to drive to the Canal landing. 
The lead horses on one of the gun-carriages 


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had been restless all afternoon. They were a 
young pair of farm-bred animals, and lacked 
the docility that comes from frequent “ bap- 
tisms of lire.” The young lieutenant, dis- 
mounted, was standing by their heads, talking 
to them gently, until their outrider, who was 
adjusting the trace-chains, returned. Just 
when it seemed that they were calmed, the 
young officer turned away from them to wave 
to his sweetheart, who was remaining until the 
last soldier would leave the field. When his 
duties were finished, it was planned that the 
West Branch hero would escort her to the 
packet. From afar the captain of the Dragoons 
noted the artillerist waving to his beloved; 
the restive horses standing heads free ; the out- 
rider busying himself with the trace chains. 
Suddenly discovering that he had an important 
message to deliver on the opposite side of the 
field, and that this rest-period was a good time 
to deliver it, he spurred his charger into action. 
The big grade Conestoga stallion plunged for- 
ward, and his rider headed him for the narrow 
lane between two of the gun carriages of the ar- 
tillerymen. As he neared the restless colts 


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standing at the lead of the young lieutenant’s 
outfit, the big roan swerved violently, bump- 
ing into the mettlesome colts with consider- 
able force. The rider was so close he may 
have — so the lieutenant always believed — dug 
a spur into one of the frightened animals. At 
any rate, they reared on their hind feet and 
started out at a run, dragging the second pair 
after them, and upsetting the outrider who 
was at work at the traces. The rider of the 
second pair, though a strong mountain boy, 
felt his arms as weak as India-rubber when it 
came to stopping his mount. The young lieu- 
tenant had turned quickly and sprang at the 
frightened beast nearest to him, but he was a 
second too slow, the gun-carriage and the four 
horses topsy-turvey were careening across the 
field headed for the Governor, his guests and 
the ladies. There was a wild scramble, and 
men, women and children tumbled over one 
another on the grass and among the benches. 
Some of the women screamed, others fainted; 
confusion reigned, a calamity seemed immi- 
nent. Several women hung to the Governor’s 
coatsleeves, dragging him, ponderous individ- 


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ual, to the earth. Some persons, quick enough 
to disentangle themselves from the struggling 
mass, ran to the right or left, escaping to 
points of safety. The young lieutenant whose 
inattention might have caused the runaway, 
was dumbstruck; he feared for his sweet- 
heart; he lamented the disastrous outcome of 
the glorious display. lie would be blamed, 
ridiculed, discredited. Suddenly a young offi- 
cer in the uniform of the Sugar Valley Greys 
and mounted on a rangy black thoroughbred 
was seen sweeping across the field, diagonally 
towards the runaway gun-carriage. He had a 
long distance to go, but he timed his pace to 
a nicety. The runaways struck his mount 
broadside with terrific force, and in an instant 
there was a mass of upturned hoofs, and tails 
and wheels, and dust, but the danger was 
past. It was fifteen minutes before the hero, 
and the artillerymen, were extricated from 
the awful tangle. The lieutenant of the Greys 
was taken out unconscious; the extent of his 
injuries could not be ascertained at first. The 
lieutenant of the West Branch artillery was 
by his side constantly, as was his sweetheart, 


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and the dashing young belle from Youngmans* 
town. The Governor accompanied the stretcher 
that bore him to a nearby farm house. Several 
surgeons examined him and predicted that he 
would recover, as apparently no bones were 
broken. His escape from death or permanent 
injury was little short of miraculous. The 
artillery lieutenant, the girl from Youngmans- 
town, his sweetheart and several members of 
his company, remained with him for a week. 
At the end of that time he was able to be 
moved to his home. He recovered completely 
and in six weeks was working on his father’s 
farm above Logansville as if nothing had hap* 
pened. But the friendship that had begun in 
the old academy at New Berlin, and grew 
warmer when both met as brother officers in 
the Battalions, had found a lasting bond when 
the lieutenant of the Greys saved his com- 
panion's happiness and honor at the risk of 
his own life. The “ Hero of the Greys” re- 
mained in the Battalions long enough to reach 
the rank of Major; then he retired, as he went 
across the mountains to live. The young lieu- 
tenant of artillery became Major General com- 


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manding all the Battalions. The captain of 
Dragoons took to drink and dropped out of 
sight. The two friendly officers fought bravely 
in the Civil War as commissioned officers, each 
having been wounded several times. After 
the war the warm association continued, and 
the old companions-in-arms met whenever pos- 
sible to renew former times. When death 
overtook the Major, at a ripe old age, at his 
comfortable mansion by the Susquehanna, the 
General’s drive of twenty miles up the valley 
to pay a last tribute to the deceased, was his 
final but permanent mark of honor and grati- 
tude. 


XXIV. 


THE SWORD OF PINE CREEK 

HERE are certain localities that 
Romance chooses from gener- 
ation to generation to be the 
scenes of its little episodes. 
Other places, maybe grander or 
more picturesque, are ignored. 
The mountain pass between 
Livonia and Sugar Valley is one 
of the favored spots of Romance. It was here 
that the unhappy love affair of Francis Penn, 
grand-nephew of the founder of Pennsylvania, 
and the beautiful Indian maiden Marsh Mari- 
gold, had its ending. It was also the scene of 
the culminating point of the romance of Cap- 
tain Morgan Evan Morgan, of the British line, 
and the attractive half-breed girl, Atoka Stra- 
han. It was sunset last summer when we drove 
across the mountain, discussing the sad fate 
of Marsh Marigold on the way. The sky was 
pale orange color, shot with umber and mauve, 

and every tree and bush stood out distinctly 
414 



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in the final foray of light. Down in the hollow 
was a large lumber camp. We could hear the 
bark-peelers singing their happy songs ; supper 
was just finished; they were care-free for the 
night. I remember saying, “ Isn’t it strange 
that the shanties are built exactly where the 
great Indian encampment was located?” My 
companion replied the reason for that wasn’t a 
coincidence, but the fact that both Indians and 
bark-peelers wished to live close to the big 
springs. High in the elbow of the mountain, 
close to never-failing springs, it was no wonder 
that the redmen put up a gallant fight in their 
natural fortress. Perhaps its inaccessibility 
is the reason why much of the hemlock forest 
has survived in this glen long after it had been 
removed from the adjacent hollows. It was 
moonlight this spring when we drove across 
the mountain discussing the romance of 
Morgan Evan Morgan and Atoka Strahan. A 
new moon of polished silver ruled in a sky of 
silver grey, shedding rays which lighted the 
lumbered-off vistas and roadways with an eerie, 
unearthly light. The tall hemlocks looked 
taller than they really were, all the world like 


416 


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ghostly warriors with grey war-cloaks when 
the moonlight shimmered down their sombre, 
impenetrable facades. Down in the hollow 
bright yellow lights gleamed from the windows 
of the lumber camp; it was still too early in 
the season for the bark-crew to be on hand and 
sit outside singing songs after supper. We 
sang a bit ourselves — snatches from the mar- 
tial melody of “ Bonnie Dundee,” when not 
speculating on the fate of Morgan Evan 
Morgan and his Atoka. Truly, it was a night 
of nights. It was in the hollow where the 
camps are now located that Chief Arrow-Wood 
maintained his stronghold. He had fought 
his enemy, Chief Rock Pine, who ruled over 
Brush Valley, to a standstill. Rock Pine tried 
to dislodge him for five successive years and 
then gave up saying, “ He is my vassal, even 
if I can’t chase him away.” Over in Sugar 
Valley Hyloshotkee, then in his prime, suc- 
ceeded in limiting his operations to the south 
side of the valley, where he grew his Indian 
corn, hemp and potatoes along the foothills 
unmolested. But his stronghold was in the 
elbow of the big mountain, close to the never- 



Photo by W. T. Clarke, Conrad, Pa. 






























































r 







































» 



























Indian Steps 


417 


failing springs. One reason why Arrow- Wood 
was so tenacious of his mountain retreat was 
that he had been “ moved on” so many times 
that he had become tired of it. He was a son 
of a King of the Delawares, and had been born 
on the western borders of Lancaster County. 
Treaties, war and invasion by the whites had 
driven him steadily westward. When he 
reached his eyrie in Bull Kun Gap over- 
looking Sugar Valley he told his family 
and clansmen that he was done moving. 
“ I will die here,” he said, and he was 
true to his promise, as old age carried him 
off, in his lodge-house by the never-failing 
springs during the autumn of 1761. In his 
early youth in Lancaster County, he had mar- 
ried an Indian widow named Love Vine, whose 
first husband was a Scotchman named Alan 
Strahan. The first marriage was short-lived, 
as the Scot was ambushed and murdered by a 
strolling band of Lenni Lenape. Six months 
after his death an infant girl was born, whom 
her mother called Atoka. Arrow- Wood, per- 
secuted and buffeted, chanced to camp where 
Love Vine was eking out a solitary existence. 


418 


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Re fell in love with her, but principally loved 
the infant girl ; she was so winsome and cap- 
tivating. Rumor had it he married the mother 
so he could bring up the baby. With his wife 
and ready-made family he gradually drifted 
west, pushed on by the relentless force of the 
whites. Several other children were born, but 
they could not compare in attractiveness with 
Atoka. When the French and Indian war 
broke out, many of the Indians in Central 
Pennsylvania, among them Arrow-Wood, sided 
with the French. They had been the first 
white men on the scene; they had used the 
Indians well; if any white men were entitled 
to the soil the Frenchmen were the ones. After 
Braddock’s defeat in 1755 the redmen became 
emboldened, and were the aggressors in many 
conflicts with the settlers. Massacres were so 
numerous that the provincial government 
erected a chain of forts to protect the outlying 
settlements. Among these was Fort Augusta, 
which stood at the old Indian town of Sha- 
mokin, now Sunbury. Immediately after it 
was built friendly Indians, mostly squaws and 
young girls and boys, began to frequent the 


Indian Steps 


419 


stockade, to trade with the soldiers and 
settlers who made headquarters there. Among 
them were Love Vine, her daughter Atoka, and 
the former’s younger children. Captain 
Morgan Evan Morgan, a young Welshman, who 
was stationed at the fort temporarily, await- 
ing orders to he sent to the Ohio region, took 
a kindly interest in the horde of visiting In- 
dians, and often made purchases from them 
“ just to help them along,” he said. He took 
particular notice of Atoka, who was about 
seventeen years old at the time. She had been 
born in 1739, about the period when Reading 
was being “ mapped out.” Her appearance 
was so different from any of the other Indian 
girls frequenting the fort, that the young offi- 
cer set out to make inquiries concerning her. 
Through Thomas McKee, the Indian trader, for 
whom McKee’s Half Falls received its name, 
he learned that her father had been a Scotch- 
man. This accounted for her dun-colored hair, 
and eyes that approached the hazel more than 
the brown. Her smooth complexion was 
tawny, and not copper-colored, like her race. 
The broad cheek-bones and full lips betokened 


420 


Indian Steps 


her Indian blood more than anything else. Ex- 
cept for these features she might have passed 
for a sun burned European. She was tall and 
supple, and her shapely hands were skilled in 
making pottery and basket- weaving. Coming 
from roving stock, she spoke several Indian 
dialects, as well as a few words of German and 
English. Captain Morgan, tall, dark and dis- 
tinguished-looking, made an impression on her, 
as she had on him. He bought all her baskets 
and utensils, praised her work, and said as 
many pleasant things to her as his limited 
polyglot vocabulary allowed. He saw to it that 
all the Indians in the neighborhood were well 
treated, which made the squaws desire to tarry 
longer than was their wont. Everything be- 
came so pleasant — thanks to his interest in 
Atoka- that some of the older officers dubbed 
him “ Morgan, the Peacemaker.” In the midst 
of this premature millennium came the news 
that an estimated force of 1500 French and In- 
dians were coming down the West Branch to 
attack the Fort. The garrison tried to keep 
the news from the squaws, but they heard it 
somehow and all of them, including Love Vine 


Indian Steps 


421 


and Atoka, departed for the wilderness. It 
would have been giving real cause for offense 
to detain them. Soon after they had gone, 
Captain Morgan and eight trusted men were 
ordered up the river to re-enforce the garrison 
at Fort Number Seven, which stood several 
miles above where Tiadaghton or Pine Creek 
empties into the Susquehanna, and which had 
been once occupied by the French. Fort 
Horn was later built on this site. A week 
slipped by after their arrival at Number Seven, 
and no hostile Indians nor Frenchmen were 
heard of. Morgan told his men that he wanted 
to go on a secret reconnoissance ; he had some 
intimations of the approach of the foe that 
must be investigated. He started off one fine 
morning, and none dare gainsay him. His 
brother officer at the fort, Captain James Lane, 
was an Irishman, who was decidedly jealous of 
the new arrival. He was glad to see him go 
on the scouting trip. “ The young fool will 
be killed,” was the comment he made on it. 
Early the next morning a visitor appeared at 
the stockade in the person of Toadflax, a 
friendly Indian living on the north side of the 


422 


Indian Steps 


river, who occasionally carried out hunting 
and fishing commissions for the soldiers. “ I 
have some strange news for you/’ he told Cap- 
tain Lane. “ Morgan came to my tent yester- 
day and bought an Indian hunter’s outfit; I 
painted his face like a redman ; he crossed the 
river and started out Love Run. I followed 
him to the south side of Sugar Valley, where I 
saw him join several members of your hated 
Arrow- Wood’s band and go away with them. 
The man is a traitor, I am sure; he is betray- 
ing your garrison to the enemy. As proof that 
what I say is true I can show you his uniform, 
which he left with me. He only took his 
sword with him.” Captain Lane was genuinely 
indignant ; if he had joined members of Arrow- 
Wood’s band he was a traitor, and as such 
must be caught in the act, and killed to atone 
his baseness. He called for volunteers to trail 
the villain, to which every man in the fort 
begged the chance to distinguish himself. Two 
Irishmen, Pat Mucklehenny and Shane Mc- 
Micken, who knew the woods well, were selected 
as the most trustworthy. Accompanied by 
Toadflax they crossed the mountains and went 


Indian Steps 


423 


as near to Arrow- Wood’s fortress as safety 
would permit. But they found no traces of 
Captain Morgan. On their way back they met 
a squaw, and tortured her until she confessed 
that she had seen the Captain, dressed as an 
Indian, but carrying a sword, moving in the 
direction of the north, that same morning. 
They were evidently hot on the trail. When 
they reached the Susquehanna they met two 
friendly Indians, who said that they had seen 
a tall, queer-looking Indian crossing the river 
in a canoe, just above the mouth of Tiadaghton. 
The pursuers made an improvised raft, and 
followed. Meanwhile Captain Morgan, whose 
worst offense had been a lover’s fib to a brother 
officer — he had merely slipped off to meet Atoka 
clandestinely — was heading for the fort in a 
roundabout way. He naturally used the dis- 
guise, as it would have looked strange if he 
visited Arrow - Wood’s territory in a British 
uniform. Toadflax had told an untruth when 
he said he saw him meet several members of 
the hostile chieftain’s band. He had merely 
seen him meet Atoka; they had strolled away 
together. Captain Morgan was no traitor, but 


424 


Indian Steps 


was very much in love, and love is blind to 
danger. After a delightful visit, every moment 
of which seemed elysium, especially the moon- 
lit evening they spent together on a ledge of 
rock above the gorge, not far from the Indian 
fortress — it must have been a night like when 
the writer drove through the pass last summer 
— the young lover started for the north, intend- 
ing to return as quickly as possible to the fort. 
He had to cross the river to get back his 
officer’s regalia; he could not return in his 
disguise. When he arrived on the north bank 
of the river he followed the creek in the direc- 
tion of Toadflax’s encampment. A quarter of 
a mile up the stream, his keen eyes detected a 
party of strange Indians, fully armed, skulking 
along the eastern shore. They had evidently 
seen him; but he would assume an indifferent 
air; maybe the danger would pass. They 
might think him a friendly Indian. Turning 
off from the path he drew his sword from the 
scabbard — it was the only thing that “gave him 
away” — and drove it into the soft earth up to 
the hilt, in the centre of a bed of wild parsnips. 
Unbuckling the belt, he rolled it up with the 


Indian Steps 


425 


scabbard and hid it under a giant pine log 
that had gone down in a windfall. Then he 
returned to the path, and looked across the 
creek, as unconcerned as you please. The 
strange Indians did not make a move to molest 
him, so both parties kept on their respective 
ways on the opposite banks of the stream. As 
he neared Toadflax’s encampment the sharp 
report of a firearm rang out in the calm after- 
noon air. Captain Morgan fell in a limp mass 
among the reeds, shot through the back, and 
bleeding copiously from the mouth. As he lay 
there Captain Lane, with a smoking musket 
in his hand, accompanied by his evil geniuses, 
Pat Mucklehenny and Shane McMicken, 
emerged from a thicket. Lane put his booted 
foot heavily on the prostrate form and orated, 
“ We have run you to earth, vile traitor; we 
have seen you accompanied by your hostile 
band, bound to betray and destroy us,” and so 
on at great length. Morgan’s pale face turned 
over; he gazed at Lane with his marble-like 
eyes, and tried to raise himself on his hands. 
Evidently he wanted to speak, as the rich red 
blood gushed more freely from his mouth. He 


426 


Indian Steps 


was a hideous figure, covered with war-paint 
and blood in ill-fitting Indian attire, as he 
sank back, gasped, gulped and expired. That 
night, they say, the wolves made him their 
portion. His neglected bones became a trellis 
for the wild morning glories; a Carolina par- 
rot nested in the skull. Lane and his com- 
rades were highly rewarded by the British 
government; even Toadflax was given a farm 
and told to always be a “ good Indian/’ As 
for Atoka, she sat on the high ledge of rock 
which overlooks the beautiful pine-crested val- 
leys, and watched and waited. Her lover 
did not come, she never knew why. The wild 
pigeons flew from the north like trails of dark 
smoke. They must have flown over Morgan’s 
camp. But not one of the uncounted millions 
brought a message. Like a fragile flower 
plucked and left out of water she faded and 
drooped, until one day she wandered off into 
the forests, doubtless dying of exposure. Her 
disappearance hastened Arrow- Wood’s end, for 
he loved her more than his own children. 
Nearly a hundred years later, about 1850, John 
Callahan, one of the respected farmers along 


Indian Steps 


427 


Pine Creek, while grubbing roots, uncovered 
Morgan’s sword. Much was said, guessed and 
written about it — it was called “ The Sword 
of Pine Creek.” If it hadn’t been for some of 
the older Indians living on Nichols’s Run the 
whole affair would have remained a mystery. 
They knew the sad story, and on occasion re- 
lated it. 



INDEX 


Page 

Introduction 5 

I The Indian Steps II 

II A Redman’s Gratitude 44 

III The Fairy Parks 63 

IV A Hermit’s Secret 83 

V The Lonely Grave 97 

VI The Jockey’s Sister 112 

VII The Despatch Rider 130 

VIII On Black Moshannon 144 

IX The Dancing Chairs 162 

X My Gips&y Sweetheart 190 

XI The Harper 210 

XII In the Blockhouse Country 237 

XIII Shadows 260 

XIV When Ghosts Walk 275 

XV The Closed House 285 

XVI The Giant Horse-shoe 299 

XVII Two Crazy Men 309 

XVIII The Section House on the Hill 322 

XIX An Eternal Feud 345 

XX Driving Out of Rocky 356 

XXI A Rock of Ages 371 

XXII She Knew the Poet 386 

XXIII Batallion Days 401 

XXIV The Sword of Pine Creek 414 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 

Building Skides 64 ^ 

A Group of Bark-Peelers 128 ^ 

A Large Skidway ; over 3000 logs 192 ^ 

A Typical Pennsylvania Lumber Camp 240 ^ 

Loading Logs 304 

Last Raft in West Branch, 1912 336*^ 

A Pennsylvania Mountain Sun Set 384 ^ 

Austin, Pa., before the Flood of 191 1 416 


SEP 4 1912 


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